A Virgin's Touch
by stress
Summary: Prequel to Obsession: Cuts like a Knife. Luke was just a good Catholic boy from a good Italian family- until they day his sister was murdered and his family simple fell apart. Within two short years he became a loner, a lover, a victim, a murderer... and that was just the beginning of his troubles as Luke Divenize transforms into the notorious Rip.
1. I BLOOD

Author's Note: _This new piece I'm beginning will be a first for me in many ways. One: This will be my first piece that should feature no _Newsies _character – it is my intent to write this using only original characters. Of course that means that I'll take any characters readers are willing to offer. I'm good like that. Though, I'm sure, one or two characters might pop up; I say that now to cover my ass later in case I decide to bring in someone. TWO: This will be my first story that will have an M rating. You may not understand right away, but, trust me, you will. THREE: If you have read any of my previous work, then you might be aware that I have a 4 part series revolving around Jack Kelly and my OC, Stress. And, if you know about that, then you know that the character Rip is a major player. Well, this is his story. So, in a way, this is the _first _story in that set – but, in another way, it's not. This is his view on what he did, and why. Why he became a rapist, why he was a murderer, why he had no emotion. And _that _is why this story will have an M rating._

_Since this will work out to be an OC piece, if you have a character that would like a role: I need hookers and loose women, strong men, and characters that are willing to die. I highly doubt anyone would like a role like that, so I'm prepared to create them all. But, I love a good open casting call – and I'm always one to offer them._

_As for the rating, I would like to invite readers who can handle adult material to read. I have many other stories that are much more appropriate for a young age; as I, myself, am 22, I feel it is time to, or at least try to, write something reflective of my age. I do this not only to please any readers but to please myself. Rip is a character that I've decided should finally have his side of the story told. You do not, of course, had to have read _Obsession: Cuts like a Knife _(the story in which his _issues _are discovered, though he does get worse in later sequels, such as _Secrets Behind the Lies _and _Can't Keep Running_) or any other in my series to understand this. At its most basic, _A Virgin's Touch_, is a story about a disturbed young man, why he is that way, and what he does._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

_Well, it you actually made it through all that, kudos! I hope to see some reviews, eh?_

And, now, the moment you've been waiting for: A Virgin's Touch…

---

A Virgin's Touch

05.17.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART I

Blood.

There was blood everywhere.

For the first time in his fourteen years, Luke Divenize was afraid. He was terrified. The shimmering crimson liquid was smeared all over the Arch, handprints visible almost as if the young girl had struggled before succumbing to her injuries.

He could not walk under the Washington State Park Arch at that moment and not just for fear of what he would see. From the uproar in the community that had led half of his Italian neighborhood from their homes off Bleecker Street down to the decade-old statue just out of the Park, he knew exactly what would be found.

_Maria_.

He found it hard to breathe just then. His mother, already inches shorter than him, was clinging tight to him. He had no words of comfort to offer. Even if he did, he would not be able to murmur them over her wails of grief.

It had been his youngest brother, Paolo, who first heard that Maria had been found. At only seven years old, Paolo came to Luke with the horrific rumors first. He was too afraid, Luke knew, to tell his parents first and Gabriel was still at work. That left Luke.

The young boy found the second-born Divenize son playing a friendly game of dice with the Marano brothers a few streets over from his family's apartment. Luke knew that his sister's confirmation was to take place later that afternoon at St. Patrick's but, before he had to wash his dark hair and change into clean clothes, he thought he would hang out with his pals for a bit. That all changed when Paolo came running in on the game.

"_Luke," he called out and, at once, Luke knew something was wrong. Or, at the very least, that Paolo thought that something was wrong. The young boy was nearly tripping over himself in his hurry to get to his brother. "Luke, come quick. Maria's hurt!"_

_Luke got to his feet immediately and went to Paolo's side. His brother was shaking considerably. Luke took a deep breath. Maria Divenize, his thirteen year old sister, was – besides his Mama, of course – his most beloved person. If someone had hurt his sister, they would pay. "What do you mean, Maria's hurt?" he asked, harshly, surprised at the sound of his own voice. He normally didn't show his emotions so vocally._

_Paolo looked surprised at his brother's tone and withdrew a little. When he spoke, his voice was no higher than a whisper. "Vinnie and the boys told me that that some other kids saw Maria down in Washington Park and that she was bleeding all over. They said she's hurt, Luke."_

_Luke almost breathed a sigh of relief at his brother's explanation. _Just a rumor, _he thought. _Nothing more than something the neighborhood hooligans said to get Paolo riled up. _He was used to this by now. Many of the boys were annoyed that Paolo liked to tag along with the older boys; coupled with the fact that his beautiful young sister preferred to stay with her family rather than be around the boys, made them all very bitter towards the Divenize family._

_Luke knew better than to head straight to the Arch on the word of his brother's rumor. Paolo was an excitable boy and could have easily created such a situation out of boredom. Shrugging his apologies to Sal and Marco, Luke took his little brother by the hand and headed down the street to his family's apartment. His father and mother would be at home, fussing over Maria. As their only daughter, it was much more significant an occasion for the Divenize's to see her confirmed than it was with Luke and Gabriel. Gabriel, the eldest child at sixteen, was at work down, Luke knew. He was a dishwasher at a nearby restaurant, but had the second half of the day off to go with the family to the Church. Antonio, two years behind Maria, should have been keeping an eye on Paolo. _

"Fratello piccolo_," Luke said, using Italian to calm Paolo down; as a rule, Luke tried not to speak the language as much. After moving to the New World from Italy at the age of nine, Luke chose to be as much of an American as he could. His accent faded considerably and he only spoke in Italian when inside his home. But, in this instance, when he could see that Paolo was severely rattled at the rumor he had heard, he referred to his am 'little brother' in Italian to fill him with a sense of familiarity. "_Fratello piccolo_," he repeated before Paolo looked up at him. "Where was Tonio?"_

_Paolo's crystal blue eyes, the same shade as the rest of his family, looked guilty; his timid face matched the expression. "I told him not to, _Fratello più anziano, _but Tonio said he was going out to see _la ragazza _down the street. Maria went after him later when Mama was upset that he wasn't there to help her. I waited for them to come back to play but, when they didn't, I went out myself. That's when I heard Vinnie and them say that they some other boys found Maria. Do you think that Tonio did it?" His eyes welled up in tears and his nose began to drip. Luke let him have his hand back; he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his best shirt._

_Luke hesitantly took Paolo's hand back just as they arrived at the small tenement that housed his family's apartment. But he didn't go inside; there was already a crowd of people swarmed around discussing the slain child that had been found. That was when Luke decided to go to the Arch. With a quick squeeze of the shoulder, Luke handed Paolo off to the old woman who lived next door to his family. She nodded once and, hand in hand with the young boy, walked him away from the crowd. Luke was grateful at her and smiled a rare smile before heading off. He wasn't alone, either. Much of his neighbors were making their way to the Park to see if the rumors were true._

_They were._

As soon as he arrived at the Park, just on the edge of Little Italy, he saw the large crowd of people crying over whatever was inside. Even if it wasn't his sister, Luke knew that someone was hurt inside. Many of the older Italian women were sobbing while crying out prayers, hanging to each either in the grief that comes when one has lost a child.

It was Signora Rossi who caught sight of Luke first. The woman lived with her large family on the floor below the Divenize's; Maria had watched her children on nights that Signora Rossi was busy working on the laundry that her family took in. The middle-aged woman was one of the ones that were sobbing and her cries only increased when she saw Luke. She held onto his back before he could get away from her and called out that the boy must be let through. She shoved onto his back and the crowd swallowed him up, forcing him on through its swell until he was facing the Arch. It was there that his mother grabbed hold of him.

It was there that he saw the blood.

"_Il mio prezioso, il mio bambino_," his mother yelled, and she held him back. He wasn't sure if she was preventing him from looking in on the scene or if she was using him to keep herself away from it. He heard her anguished yells and knew, without a doubt, that Paolo had been right.

The realization was enough to quell the rising sense of terror that threatened to overtake him. While still holding tight to his mother, he pushed the emotion down, fighting it until all he felt was nothing. It was a wretched emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He wiped his face of any emotion and untangled himself from his mother. His father was not beside her, nor was any of her children. He was sure that Gabriel would still be at work and he knew that Paolo was with Signora Amberg. Though she still wept, and he felt the sting of her fingernails as she scratched at him to keep him in her embrace, he coldly tipped her into the arms of Signora Marano. Without even realizing he was thinking about such frivolities, Luke thought that Sal and Marco had told their mother what Paolo said and that she had been one of the first to come to the scene. Signora Marano was a dear friend of his mother's – as well as a very nosy woman.

Luke stepped forward and he was mildly aware that, once his mother had been restrained by Signora Marano's embrace, none of the other's stopped him from approaching the scene beyond the Arch.

His first thought was the same as before: _Blood. There is blood everywhere._ If he thought that the sight of red before was intense, the small crumpled form was nearly swimming in a sea of scarlet.

Luke couldn't see the girl's face from the way that she was positioned but he knew, without any other hint, that it was Maria.

_Maria._

She was dressed in the white gown that her mother had spent three months making just for the confirmation sacrament. The dress, once pristine, appeared as it had been bathed in blood though, from her back, he did not see any wound.

Her long dark curls flowed down her back, hiding her face even further. The simple silver cross she had worn since her communion could be seen resting on the raven locks. _She may have been murdered but she hadn't been robbed_, he noted before taking another step forward. Besides the fallen form of Maria, he was not alone in the Park.

He awkwardly patted his father on the back. The great bulky shape of Giovanni Divenize was crouched over the form of his daughter, tears streaming down his bearded face. There was a pair of cops standing behind him. They seemed as if they wanted to investigate the scene but the size of the victim's father kept them at bay; the sound of the upset crowd kept them from leaving. They wanted justice.

_It was true then_, was the only thought Luke had at that moment and, deep down, he knew he should feel some sort of sadness at this. She had not only been his sister; Maria had been his best friend. But he knew he wouldn't. It was as if, in that one moment that he pushed the fear out of his mind, he pushed all feeling aside.

With the loss of his sister ultimately came the loss of his self.

--

Translations:

_Fratello piccolo_ – Little brother_  
Fratello più anziano _– Older brother_  
la ragazza _– the girl  
_Il mio prezioso, il mio bambino_ – My precious, my child


	2. II WINE

Author's Note: _Here we go, the second part, just as I promised. I also want to say that I am A) super psyched about the reviews – yay. I am one of those review whores you anxiously check my e-mail to see if any reviews come in. I just really like to hear what people think about my work. Especially when I work on intricate pieces like this one and _Diabo_¸ I work on it during the entire week in between updates, setting up what each chapter means to the overall outcome. For example, in this work, I knew where Luke ends up. I'm trying to show you all how exactly he got there. Maria's death, while sad, played a vital role – but it was not, by any means, the worst of what will happen. Poor Luke. B) Thank you all for your character profiles. I really did not think people would be interested in it but you guys proved me wrong. I will work you all in somewhere, beginning with the next chapter. So, keep your eyes out ;)_

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

05.24.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART II

"Fuck you," he spat out, pushing Gabriel hard in the chest. "_Fratello_," he added, lacing the last word with as much spite as he could muster. Gabriel, two years his senior and at least four inches taller, stumbled only slightly. For all the indifference the younger Divenize had shown throughout the mourning process, Gabriel had never assumed Luke to grow so violent now that the focus of the discussion turned to their sister's murderer.

Carolina Divenize held her hands to her heart and slumped into the safe arms of her distraught husband. Tears sprung to her brown eyes and she began to sob. "_L'oh, la mia famiglia povera. Quando lo scopo di dolore e la mia famiglia saranno ancora interi_?" she wailed and clung to Giovanni. Neither parent had grieved near long enough for Maria; with every outburst between Luke and Gabriel, Carolina seemed to feel the pain anew.

Giovanni tried to calm her but his whispers did nothing to slow her sobs before helping her into her seat at the kitchen table. He eased her out of his arms and, staggering a bit, took the seat next to her. Ever since such fights as these between their eldest children became commonplace, shortly after Maria had been buried, neither parent had the strength to stop them. Their emotions were still in disarray following the slaughter of their only daughter. Instead of being authoritative parents, they became unwilling spectators.

Gabriel fought the urge to strike out at his brother. It was he who had taken control of the family and he knew he had to set an example for Tonio and Paolo, even though the two younger boys had already been sent to bed for the night. If he shoved Luke back, even if only to put his younger brother back into his place, he would be telling the others that it was alright to hit. And, after the brutal way Maria had been stabbed to death, Gabriel wanted no other reminder of violence – especially from inside the family. "Luke," he said, trying to maintain a sense of calmness, "can't you see that this is hurting Mama? You need to calm down. No one said that we weren't gonna keep looking for the person who did that to Maria. I just said that we need to heal our family first and try to get past this before we seek revenge. The police are doing all they can."

Luke's icy blue eyes fell on his mother's sobbing form and, for a moment, they seemed to flicker with the life that had been there until Maria's death. But the flicker lasted only for that one moment; in the next his emotionless expression was back. When he spoke he sounded much calmer than Gabriel had. His anger was gone, replaced by the coldness that had become normal for the young teenager. "I understand, Gabriel. I'm sorry for my actions. I just want to make sure that whoever hurt Maria gets what is due to them."

Gabriel nodded, relieved that, this time, Luke had given in so readily. His tired face split into a grin. He was still working five days a week at _Vincenzo's_, one of the many Italian restaurants in the area. Then, when his eight-hour shifts as a dishwasher were complete, he came home and cooked supper for his family, as well as checking up on his younger brothers. His father, while he continued in his job at the factory, had been spending more time drinking alcohol lately; his mother did nothing but sob and pray. It had only been two months since Maria was buried and his family was falling apart. Tonio and Paolo had each acted out considerably: Paolo would not leave the apartment unless he was dragged by Gabriel while Tonio had already got into four fistfights.

But Luke, he was the most affected by his sister's murder. The pair had been extremely close and it was easy for Gabriel to see that Luke blamed himself for her death and wished that it had been he who had been killed in her stead. While Luke never said as much, Gabriel knew just by the way his brother gazed at her photograph. If he didn't know any better, he could almost swear that Luke _loved_ Maria in a much different manner than the rest of the family – but that was silly. He was her brother and he loved her as they all loved her.

At first, Luke had illustrated his personal grief by refusing to attend the Church service and burial. He ended up breaking down, going to the service and taking his place between Gabriel and Tonio in the first pew when his mother sobbed and prayed that _Dio_ was taking two children away from her. Later, rather than ignoring her death, Luke had taken to haunting her gravesite during the times when he was not out intimidating the neighborhood kids for information about the murder. Even though it had been two months, and the young girl had been murdered in broad daylight, the police had no leads on who perpetrated the brutal crime.

Gabriel took a step forward and tried to pat his brother's shoulder. Luke, however, flinched upon the contact and backed up. Gabriel sighed and took his hand back. "Listen, Luke, we'll talk about this later," he said under his breath. He looked at Luke and then turned his head slightly so that his blue eyes rested on their mother. Luke understood and shrugged his agreement. Though his emotions had been detached since Maria's death, the sight of his mother so upset always seemed to awaken some sense of decency in him, even if it was for just a few seconds.

Giovanni recognized the end of another of his sons' arguments. Before they could start up again, he gently squeezed his wife's arms. "_Venuto, il mio amore_," he said, his speech slightly slurred. It was still somewhat early in the evening and the liquor had not taken a strong hold of his senses yet. He helped her get to her feet and guided her away from the table. Carolina reluctantly let him maneuver her out of the kitchen, towards their bedroom. Right before they left Luke and Gabriel alone in the kitchen, she stopped and pulled on Giovanni's arm. He stopped and used the wall as support to keep himself standing. "_Sonno bene, i miei figli_," she said, her voice thick from crying, as she wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her blouse. "_Ricordisi di, ti amo entrambi molto."_ She let her words hang in the air before taking hold of Giovanni's arm. The man took it as a sign that she was ready for bed and began to lead her away again.

Gabriel smiled sadly. "_Ti amo, anche, mama,"_ he called after her, trying to keep his voice from sounding the depression he felt. Where Luke's emotions had become rather detached, and his father drowned his sorrows in drink, his mother had become overly emotional. Whenever she said goodbye to any of her children, she made sure to tell them she loved them. The first time Paolo questioned her – because, as a young boy, love was "icky" – the entire family had to listen to Carolina wail for three hours how her last words to Maria were "_Riportate quel pidocchio di un fratello di il vostro."_

He heard a hiccupped sob escape his mother and nudged his brother in the side with his elbow. Like he had before, Luke flinched but Gabriel ignored him. "Say goodnight to Mama," he hissed.

He listened to his brother but maybe it would have been better if he hadn't it. When he spoke his voice came out dry and unfeeling. "_Buona notte, Mama_."

Her sob was even louder this time before Giovanni had the sense to shut the door behind him and his wife.

Luke and Gabriel stood together in the kitchen, in silence, for a few minutes before the older boy quietly left the room. Luke remained where he was standing. There was a slight nagging feeling that _maybe _he should have said something nice to his mother. He couldn't help it though. The cold words were out before he had even thought them. He remained staring at the white wall, stained yellow from years of the smoking that took place in the kitchen. It was calming and, if there was anything he needed, it was calm sensation that could overtake the emptiness he felt.

He saw Gabriel return to the kitchen, a glass bottle in his hand. When his brother retrieved a glass from the cupboard, and sat down at the table, Luke paid attention to the bottle he had. The label, peeling away from the green glass, said: _Vino_. His brother had stolen one of their father's bottles of wine. Deep inside this struck him as wrong. The slight feeling nearly succumbed to the overpowering emptiness but not before Luke sat at the table and pointed at the considerable amount of dark red liquid Gabriel had just poured into his glass. "What are you doing, Gabriel?"

Gabriel glanced up at Luke and did not even try to bring his grin back to his face. Luke, with all the trouble he had been causing the family, did not deserve it. It occurred to Luke, at that moment, how tired his older brother looked – and how similar he was in appearance to his father. _Though_, he reasoned, _that probably had something to do with the glass of wine in his strong hand. _Gabriel just shrugged. "Like Papa said, 'I drink to drown my sorrows,'" he said before lifting the glass to his lips.

Luke took the seat next to his brother and narrowed his eyes. "Well, let me tell you, I think that your sorrows know how to swim and your drink there really means nothing," he said, condescendingly, as he reached out and pulled the wine bottle away from his brother.

Gabriel laughed and placed the glass down. "That is the smartest thing I've heard from you in weeks, Luke. Where did you get that from?"

That sad yet intense expression that he assumed whenever he looked at Maria's photograph crossed his face momentarily. "A very smart girl said that once," he said, and Gabriel knew exactly who he was referring to. He raised his glass again and took another sip. Whether it drowned his sorrows or not, he needed the dullness it provided. He understood now exactly why his father fell into a heavy drinking pattern when life became too much for him.

Luke watched as Gabriel took various drinks of his glass. He shook his head and his dark hair, longish now that he neglected his monthly trim, fell forward to cover his eyes. Here he was, giving out logic that Maria had given. She always had a tendency to try to help people, and she really was as sweet and innocent as she appeared to be. _It's not fair. Why did she have to die?_ From beneath the emptiness flared up an intense hatred but it was quickly pushed aside. He couldn't afford to get angry. When he was angry he did bad things. Things Maria, up in Heaven, would never approve of.

Without bothering to get his own glass, Luke grabbed the bottle he had moved out of Gabriel's reach and brought it up. Gabriel watched with an interested expression as his younger brother began to gulp down the bottle's contents with a straight face. "Mama is not going to like that," he said when Luke finally placed the bottle down.

He didn't like the taste but he would die before he gave Gabriel the satisfaction of seeing him disgusted. He assumed a haughty expression. It took no effort and he realized it was an expression he had grown accustomed to in the short time since Maria's death. "I don't think Mama or Papa is going to like that you've taken to drink either," Luke countered. It had not gotten passed him that Gabriel, rather than look like the wine tasted bitter, seemed to enjoy the taste. _This must not have been the first time that he sat up drinking_, he realized.

Gabriel laughed again and raised his glass. There was only enough liquid inside for a mouthful. His blue eyes were taking on a bit of a glaze and his hand wobbled slightly. "_Al Mama_," he toasted.

Luke lifted the wine bottle back up. "No," he said, his voice clear. The amount of liquor he ingested had not affected him at all. "_Al Maria_."

The brothers clanked their drinks, bottle on glass, and took their sips. Gabriel finished his glass and Luke swallowed another mouthful. "_Al Maria_," he repeated, much quieter the second time. Gabriel, too intent on taking the wine bottle back from Luke in order to refill his glass, didn't even hear him.

--

Translations:

_Fratello _– Brother  
_L'oh, la mia famiglia povera. Quando lo scopo di dolore e la mia famiglia saranno ancora interi _- Oh, my poor family. When will the pain end and my family be whole again?  
_Dio _- God  
_Venuto, il mio amore _– Come, my love  
_Sonno bene, i miei figli _– Sleep well, my sons  
_Ricordisi di, ti amo entrambi molto _– Remember, I love you both very much  
_Ti amo, anche, mama_ - I love you, too, Mama  
_Riportate quel pidocchio di un fratello di il vostro_ - You bring back that louse of a brother of yours  
_Buona notte, Mama _- Goodnight, Mama  
_Al Mama ­­_– To Mama_  
Al Maria ­_– To Maria


	3. III MELODY

Author's Note: _And, alas, I come bearing the third part of _A Virgin's Touch_. In this part, set five months after Part I, and three months after Part II, I used this chapter to show the conflicting feelings within Luke. He goes from times where he feels certain emotions to times where he is hollow and empty. But, over all, he is still a young boy – he has been traumatized by his sister's death but he has yet to be victimized. That will be seen in following chapters. Part III and (following soon) Part IV are set at the same time; while there was time separating Parts I, II & III, I am starting to bring this piece closer in time for a bit. I hope you all enjoy._

_Also, I just want to say what a major pain in the ass it is to have to research this piece. Before I make any fact, I'm spending time verifying it. Wikipedia is my friend :) The big problem I had with this part is the legal drinking age in 1893(when this all takes place, by the way – 1895 is when it'll end). From all the research I did, it appears that a legal drinking age wasn't established until 1934, when it was 18. In 1984, it was increased to 21. I could find no mention of it prior to Prohibition in the 1920's; it was said that society's standards kept too young children from drinking._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

_The character of Melody/Bittah is the creative property of the author, Bittersweet Harmony. Thank you for letting me include her in this story, Bittah – Stress._

---

A Virgin's Touch

05.31.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART III

There was a knock at the door. Luke glanced up from his cold and half-eaten meal of _frittata_. He pushed the peas and eggs around with his fork, intent on ignoring the rapping at the apartment door. _It's probably just Gabriel, too lazy to take out his key_. He speared a pea with the edge of his fork and brought it to his lips.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. _Whoever it was had progressed from knocking to incessant tapping. Luke sighed and lowered his fork. He hadn't been able to sit peacefully at the table when his father and younger brothers were in the kitchen earlier that evening. Now that Tonio and Paolo were in bed, and his father was in the midst of another of his drunken stupors, he had tried to finish his supper before Gabriel returned from working the late shift at _Vincenzo's_. And now this. If it wasn't Gabriel – for, if it was, he would have surely taken out his key by now – who could it be? After Maria's death five months ago, and Carolina Divenize's hospitalization three months later following a strong bout of pneumonia couple with severe depression, not many visitors had come to call at their apartment. _I wonder who it could be._ But curiosity was not enough to entice him to leave his seat; it had been a long day out on the street and he was eager to relax and take some time for himself.

_Bang. Bang. _Whoever it was, they were not leaving until someone answered the door.

"_Ottenga il portello, ragazzo pigro_." His father, not as passed out as he would like, slurred out the command. The banging was probably heard much louder in his inebriated state. But, of course, he couldn't leave his bedroom to answer the door. That was Luke's job.

"_Sì_," Luke called back before muttering under his breath, "you drunken ass." He pushed his chair away from the table before rising. His hair, even longer than it had been – after all, five months was a long time to go without a haircut – fell forward and nearly hid his blue eyes, narrowed in dislike at the door. Whoever it was, they were leaving as soon as he gave them a piece of his mind.

He opened the door, a scowl on his face. "What do you…want?" Though his question started out harsh, matching his annoyed expression, it softened on the last word. It wasn't Gabriel at the door or anyone else he knew – it was a girl.

Her hand, tucked into a fist, was poised to hit the door again. When she saw that someone had finally answered, she lowered her hand and stuck it into the right side pocket of her dark slacks. Her grey eyes were staring intently at him and she appeared as frustrated as Luke felt. "Does Gabriel Divenize live here?" she asked, and he had to try not to roll his eyes at the way she butchered his last name.

He nodded but kept his eyes on her. She was dressed so strangely. He was used to girls wearing skirts and dresses; that's the sort of clothes Mama had made for Maria. But this girl – not only did she wear dark slacks, but her shirt was similar to his. The grey button down shirt suited her coloring. The pale color matched the shade of her eyes and complimented the short, dirty-blonde hair that he spied peeking out from under her dark cap. If it wasn't for the delicacy of her features, he might have mistaken her for a boy.

She seemed a little uncomfortable under his scrutiny but did not comment on it. _She's a tough one_, Luke admired briefly. Though she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was, the way she carried herself spoke of a strong personality; it easily made her appear to be much bigger than she was. "Is he here?"

"Who?"

She sighed and the exhale sounded just like his mother when she was cleaning up after her children. Well, at least before she got so sick and had to go away. "Gabriel. Your brother, I assume." Now it was her turn to look him over. He could almost feel her eyes traveling across his body and he smirked. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Like what you see?"

She jerked her head up and almost snorted. "You wish, kid," she answered. His smirk wavered a bit but did not slide off of his face. _That's not fair really_, he thought. _She can't be more than two years older than me._

The girl stood there, waiting, now. Luke realized that it was his turn. "Why are looking for Gabriel, girlie?" he asked, sticking his chin outward and looking down. He may be younger than her but he _was_ taller.

A slight flush came over her. She seemed angry. "Bittah."

"Bitter?" he asked, drawing out the second syllable. He wasn't sure if that's what she actually said.

She shook her head sharply. "No. Bittah. That's my name," she added. "Listen, can you just tell Gabriel that I'm here?" She looked over his shoulder and tried to scan the room behind him. Yet, there was no sight of Gabriel.

But Luke wasn't done with her yet. "Why is your name so odd?" His arms still crossed, he leaned back against the doorway, blocking her view into the apartment. He hadn't missed her quick glance past him. "Well?"

His questions were getting her even more frustrated. She reached up and began to fiddle with the silver cross that had been tucked underneath her white undershirt. "They called me Melody, alright? But I go by Bittah now."

He nodded again, trading his smirk for a small smile. He was having fun baiting this girl. Ever since his mother had been hospitalized, Gabriel had been spending more and more time out of the apartment. Without his older brother around to bother, Luke had been visiting Maria's grave all the more frequent. And it's hard to pester a slab of marble.

She dropped the cross and, after making sure it was tucked back under her shirt, she placed her hands on her hips. "Do me a favor, kid? Just tell Gabriel to meet me down at _Red's Bar_ down on 25th street. You got that?"

_25th street?_ Luke raised his eyebrow. "Ain't that joint on the edge of the Tenderloin, Melody?" _What the hell is Gabriel doing, going to the Tenderloin?_

Bittah matched his grin, providing one of her own. "You're smarter than you look, kid. Have you ever been out there?" When Luke didn't answer, she cocked her head. "You should check it out sometime," she said. She winked at him once and stuck her hands back in her pockets. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away from him. Luke just closed the door behind her.

And, when Gabriel finally came home hours later, stumbling into the kitchen where Luke was waiting for him, he had no doubts that Gabriel had found his way to _Red's _without Luke having to share Melody's message with him. The boy reeked of alcohol.

---

In the days that followed, Luke spent more time home than ever. That, of course, was a good thing. Giovanni Divenize, a mere illusion of the man he had once been, refused to leave his bedroom; after burying his little girl and losing his wife to the institute, he saw no reason to do anything more than holler for one of his sons to bring him more beer. Tonio had taken to haunting the Romano's apartment, the home of the girl, Elisabetta, he had been visiting the day Maria had been killed. Paolo rarely left the house, himself, but spent his time reading. Rather than face the harsh reality that had consumed his life, the youngest Divenize preferred to enter fantastical worlds where he could escape. Luke remained in the kitchen, preparing simple meals in order to get his family to eat; it was what his Mama would have wanted. He told himself that he didn't want to upset her further and how happy would she be when she returned from the hospital, if everything had been taken care of while she was gone.

The truth, though, was that he spent much of his time in the kitchen because, when Gabriel was actually home, _he_ was in the kitchen. Ever since that brief encounter with that girl, all Luke wanted to do was find out what had happened to Gabriel. He had been the son who kept the family together. Now it was Luke. And Luke was concerned with his brother's secretive actions.

But it was clear that Gabriel, during the brief occasions when he came home sober enough, did not intend to share any of his activities with his younger brother. When Luke mentioned Melody – and then "Bittah" because Gabriel seemed to have no idea who Melody was – to him, he smiled and said she was "a sweet girl despite her attitude" and that "he was lucky to have made friends with her." Luke wasn't sure what that meant; Gabriel had smiled when he said it but, besides the slur in which he said the comments, he seemed sincere. But sweet girls did not spend nights down at _Red's Bar_. And honest, hard-working Italian Catholic boys were not supposed to get drunk.

For the first time in a long time, Luke felt something stirring deep within him – and it wasn't anger. It was curiosity, a curiosity so strong that, one night, after he had checked to make sure that Paolo was in bed and his father was locked in his room, he decided he was going to find out exactly _what_ Gabriel was up to.

---

It didn't take him as long as he thought to find _Red's Bar_. When Melody had said that it was on 25th street, she wasn't kidding. Though the establishment was small, it was right across from the street sign that indicated that it was, in fact, on 25th street.

He stood outside the door and peered inside but, considering it was probably just as dark inside as it was outside, he could see nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled on the door.

His first impression, besides the assertion that it really _was_ that dark inside, was that the place was way too smoky for him. With his first breath, he coughed slightly. His lungs were unused to the potency of the tobacco; though his father, even when Luke was younger, drank his beer, neither his father nor mother ever smoked.

He tried to cover up his discomfort quickly when the bartender, the only person who noticed his entrance into the dank and smoky building, glanced up at him. The man, even taller and bulkier than his father, was biting down on the edge of a cigar and scowling at Luke. His eyes were narrowed in dislike at the boy and his chin was hidden by a thick array of red whiskers. This man, undoubtedly, must be the Red of _Red's Bar_.

Luke straightened up and looked around. Apart from the counter just to the right of the place, he saw that there were a variety of small tables filled with people talking and drinking. Then, in the back, hardly discernable through the smoke, there was a door with a sign above it. The sign, in brick print, said: PRIVATE.

From his quick scanning, Luke did not find his brother among the other patrons of the bar. Though it was dark outside, it was still early. Maybe Gabriel hadn't finished his shift at _Vincenzo's_ yet.

Trying to appear much older than he was – _fourteen year old boys_, he reminded himself, _did not belong in bars_ – he approached the counter and took the only vacant seat he saw, between a bald man and young boy with a black cap slung low. He waited for the large bartender to look his way and, when he did, he barked out his order. "Gimme a sarsaparilla," he said, trying to keep the Italian lilt from his voice. With such red hair, Luke had no doubts that Red was an Irishman; could this, perhaps, be an Irish bar? And, despite the occasional wine he had at home, he was not comfortable ordering liquor in an establishment. To him, there was a big difference between his actions at home and his actions at public.

Red, as he assumed was the bartender's name, just nodded before grabbing a glass from beneath the counter and pouring the brown drink into it. When the glass was filled about halfway, he slammed it in front of Luke. "_Grazie_," he muttered under his breath before raising the glass up. He did a mock toast towards the back of Red's head before downing half of the glass' contents.

The drink was somewhat bitter and Luke had a hard time controlling his facial expression. Like the first time he drank wine, he had expected something better tasting. In this case, however, it was harder to keep a straight face because he was used to sarsaparilla treated with oil of wintergreen to make it taste better. It seemed like Red liked to skimp on the flavoring.

"Can't hold your liquor, eh, kid?" The boy sitting to his right was speaking to him. He had kept his head straight, nursing his own glass, but had witnessed the struggle of control on Luke's face.

Luke felt his face growing hot. _I didn't come down here to get pissed on_, he thought and tapped the boy on his shoulder. "Did you say something, buddy?" When the boy didn't answer him, he tapped even harder. "Hey…"

That's when he turned and Luke saw that "he" was really a she. It was Melody. Her grey eyes were not grey but, rather, blue and they were watery and rimmed with red. That glass in her hand was definitely not her first that night. "Hey kid. Looking for Gabriel, I gather?"

All Luke could do was nod.

--

Translations:

_Fritatta _– An open faced omelette. There can be potatoes and eggs, peas and eggs, asparagus and eggs, peppers and eggs, cucuzza and eggs.  
_Ottenga il portello, ragazzo pigro_ – Get the door, lazy boy.  
_Sì_ – Yes  
Tenderloin – A (now defunct) seedy, red-light district on the West Side of Manhattan from 24th Street to 40th Street  
_Grazie_ - Thanks


	4. IV DAISY

Author's Note: _And, here is the fourth part of _A Virgin's Touch. _It is with this chapter, more than the others, that I truly earn my M rating. So, if you are uncomfortable with mentions of sexual scenes, you may not want to read. It is not explicit, due to the site's rules, but it is suggestive. I also have more than one language being used in this chapter. While the normal foreign language that I use in this story is Italian, I do have three lines in this chapter that are in Gaelic. They are noted in the translations part of this chapter. I hope you guys like this chapter. It was really hard for me to write and I'm glad I got past it._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

_Again, the character of Melody/Bittah is the creative property of the author, Bittersweet Harmony. Daisy is the property of me because I didn't want to subject anyone else to the role._

---

A Virgin's Touch

06.07.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART IV

Melody, most unladylike, lifted her glass to her lips and drained it just then. With a loud smack, she put the glass down before lifting her right hand, pointer finger extended. "Red," she said and the large bartender nodded in her direction. _So his name is Red_, Luke thought as the man brought a bottle over to Melody's glass. The bottle, clear glass with a green label proclaiming the beverage to be "Bushmill's Irish Whiskey", poured out a rich golden liquid into Melody's cup. Red lifted the mouth of the bottle away from the glass when it was halfway filled. Melody rapped her knuckles against the wooden counter top. "More," she said, her speech already slightly slurred. Luke thought that the girl shouldn't have had so much to begin with. He watched the scene out of the corner of his eye, interested now. Red did not appear to be the type of person a sixteen year old girl told what to do, customer or not.

It seemed that the bartender agreed with Luke's silent assessment on Melody's state. Rather than backhand the girl for her sass, Red just pulled the whiskey bottle back and gazed down on Melody. There was a certain level of softness in his cold green eyes. "Bittah," he said, and his thick Irish brogue confirmed Luke's earlier suspicion. _An Irishman, I thought so_. "I think that you've had more than enough tonight, _a __cailín_," he added, now looking kindly at her. It was a look quite opposite to the one he had bestowed upon Luke earlier. _Melody must be a regular here_, he realized.

Regardless of the familiarity that the bartender seemed to show her, Melody did not appreciate being talked down to like that. "You're not my fucking father, Red," she said, her sweet voice at odds with the dirty language she used, "so don't use your fancy Irish talk to tell me what to do. I said more, dammit."

As surprised as Luke was by her outburst, Red seemed used to it. "_Ar ndóigh_, Bittah," he agreed as he brought forth the whiskey bottle again. This time he filled the glass all the way to the rim before walking away to serve another customer at the end of the bar. As he went, Luke could hear him muttering under his breath, though he had no idea what the strange sounds meant. "_Tá dúil sa deoch aici, _Bittah _bochta_."

She rolled her eyes at his further use of his native language before lifting her glass back to her lips. She took a swig from it and, after she had placed it down upon the counter, she turned to Luke. "Good man, Red, when he ain't talking like a Goddamn mick. He should know better than to not talk American, right, kid?"

"Luke." He said his name out loud without even meaning to. So concerned with making sure that he kept all sorts of Italian from slipping out, he revealed his name to her. Which, he realized, was about time; after their brief meeting last week, he had discovered her Christian name and her nickname, but she still referred to him as 'kid'.

Melody swung around on her stool until she was facing him. A coy smile crossed her face as she repeated his name. "Luke." She drew out the single syllable and, when she was done, her eyes crinkled in amusement. "What? Were your folks religious fuddies or something? Gabriel and Luke, how _Catholic_ of them." Still facing him, she reached behind her and grabbed at her drink. Her hand felt around for a few seconds before her fingers felt the smooth texture of the glass. She lifted it up and took another gulp.

Luke watched her with narrow eyes. While, moments ago, he had been almost fixated by the girl's actions – before this, the only girls he had had close contact with were his mother and sister and they were _nothing_ like Melody – now he was finding himself detaching from her. Her singular mention of his parents was enough to do that. He got up from his stool.

The smile slid off of her face when he turned away from her, leaving his glass of sarsaparilla half-drunk. She placed her glass back down and reached out for Luke with her right hand. He went tense under her touch. "Where you going, Luke?" she said, a slight hiccup interrupting her question. The sadness in which she asked him, coupled with her touch, caused him to face her once more.

He opened his mouth to tell her to leave him alone but, upon meeting her muddled grey-blue eyes with his own icy cool ones, he found he couldn't. She had abandoned the hardened expressions that kept her guarded and, during that moment of vulnerability, Luke was reminded of his sister's innocence. And he could never talk back to Maria. Luke shook his head and his floppy black hair fell forward. "I have to go find Gabriel."

"Oh," she said and dropped her hand away from him. She spun back on her stool and stared forward. All of a sudden it occurred to Luke that it was _Gabriel_ who was the reason behind her drunken state. Melody laughed hollowly before finishing off her whiskey. Instead of flagging down Red for other fill, she jerked her thumb behind her. "If you need Gabriel, just wait. He should be done soon."

Luke followed the direction in which she was gesturing. Her thumb pointed straight to the door in the back of the bar. To the door marked 'Private'.

Squinting through the smokiness that permeated the establishment, Luke eyed the door. _Private_? "_Che cosa…_?" he muttered, confused enough to say the words in his native tongue. He felt Melody's eyes on his back and, when he turned around, he saw that she was staring moodily at the door.

She didn't say anything about his use of Italian which made him think that she didn't hear him; she was quick to poke fun at Red earlier for his use of Gaelic. And she sure did not look like any young Italian girl that he had ever seen. He assumed that she was too far gone to pay attention to little things. That, or she was too upset with whatever Gabriel was doing behind that door. Luke thought that maybe he should ask Melody what was going on before abandoning that idea. It seemed much safer, given Melody's present mood, that he wait for Gabriel to come out of that door.

Neither one of them had to sit at the bar much longer before Gabriel came out. With both sets of eyes staring past the other patrons, they noticed it immediately when the door opened and a young man exited, fixing the top two buttons on his white shirt as he went.

"Gabriel?" Luke asked. He heard Melody let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Before he could turn his head to the side to see what was wrong with Melody, she got up from her stool and, pushing an entering couple aside, stormed out of the bar. Luke let her go. He was too interested to meet the woman who accompanied his brother out into the front of the bar.

She was shorter and slimmer than Gabriel but Luke could see, even through the smoke, that she was older than his brother. She wore a simple mauve robe that covered up everything but her arms, hands and feet. Her hair was pinned out of her face, a face that was covered in liberal amounts of rouge and powder. Without a doubt, Luke recognized his brother's companion; she was a harlot. _No wonder Melody left._

When Gabriel spied Luke standing in the middle of the bar, the satisfied smirk he wore was swapped for one of surprise. "_Fratello piccolo_," he said, stretching his arms out in front of him. He was met with an expression of disgust and quickly dropped his arms. "What are you doing here?"

Ignoring the interested look on the woman's face as she stood beside Gabriel, Luke turned the question around. "No, Gabriel, what are you doing here? _Il mama morrebbe se sapesse_." He crossed his arms over his chest and dared his brother to answer.

Gabriel looked taken aback at Luke's accusation but his surprise lasting only seconds. His blue eyes narrowed at Luke and they sparkled with mischief. "Calm down, Luke. She's just a friend of mine. A good friend. And I'd really like you to meet her," he added, with a suggestive smile.

Daisy understood Gabriel's comment before Luke did. She took a step away from Gabriel and sized up Luke with one of her dark brown eyes. She looked him up and down once before her deep red lips pursed and then widened into a predatory grin. "Oh, yes, Gabriel. I would love to meet him."

Luke uncrossed his arms and held up his hands, for once feeling as if he were on the other side of an argument – the losing side. He now knew what his brother was implying and what the result would be; if Luke accepted the woman's services than he would be as much at fault as his brother. He would have no choice but to keep Gabriel's secrets. "_No, non potrei possibilmente_," he said, more to Gabriel than to the heavily made-up woman that accompanied him. He could small the cheap perfume that mingled with the odor of sweat and was appalled. She appalled him.

Gabriel laughed and it was a sound that Luke had not heard come from his brother in quite some time. For some reason, it unnerved him to hear it now. He winked once at the woman before reaching forward and patting her hand. "Don't listen to him, Daisy. Just do the same for him that you do for me. My brother needs it," he added before taking his hand back. The woman, Daisy, nodded, her brown hair flopping slightly with the action.

Without a warning, one of Daisy's hands – surprisingly strong for a petite woman – wrapped around his upper arm. "Come with me, kid," she said huskily before leading him through the door. His last glimpse into the bar before Daisy shut the door behind them was Gabriel approaching the bar and taking the stool that Melody's quick flight had left vacant.

Contrary to his first assumption, there was not a room directly behind the door. Instead, there was a set of stairs leading upwards. Daisy let Luke go before her and, standing behind him, gently pushed him in the back whenever he stalled on a step.

At the top of the stairs, there was a landing that branched off into two directions, each with their own door. Daisy gestured to the door on the left. Luke hesitantly opened the door and stepped inside. She followed him in.

The room was small and was only furnished with a bed and a small night table. There was a single candle resting on top of the table shedding a slight haze over the small bed, already tussled from earlier activity.

Daisy shut the door behind her and smiled over at Luke. With one of her thick fingers, she pointed at his chest. "First thing you gotta do is strip," she said, rising one of her dark eyebrows at him. To prove her point, she shed the mauve robe that she had worn downstairs. As the fabric fell onto the wooden floor of the small room, Luke saw the full form of a naked woman for the first time. His reaction was almost immediate. Even in the limited light, Daisy could make out the bulge in his tan pants. "Strip," she echoed, her lips curled even more so. She was enjoying herself.

Luke hesitated but did what he was told. He couldn't see any reason to disobey the woman.

Slowly, and nervously, he undid his belt and let it fall to the floor. His pants followed and then he lifted his hands to his shirt. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the woman, as natural as she was. He wasn't sure what to do next but that was not a problem. As soon as his clothing was in a pile, Daisy took an appreciative look at the boy before blowing the candle out. For a novice, she found that the dark was better.

Luke heard the faint whine of the bed's springs as Daisy climbed on top of it. He took the sound as his cue to join her. As soon as his bare flesh made contact with the rough quilt that adorned it, he tensed. In an effort to relax the boy, Daisy sought out his hand in the dark. Once she had it, she led it up until his clammy hand was resting on her breast. He grew even tenser at that.

Then, her hands free, Daisy straddled him so that her legs were on both sides of him before beginning to explore his bony chest. As the flesh of her palms rubbed up against his nipples, Luke shuddered and began to relax. He began to breathe heavily and she could tell that he was enjoying himself.

The last thing he remembered before he gave himself over to her sensual touch was the feel of her hand. Compared to the delicacy of her other features, her hands were rather large and rough. And those hands – as mannish as he could tell they were amidst the darkness – were slowly caressing his chest.

Despite his obvious inexperience and initial hesitation, Daisy, too, enjoyed herself in her ministrations. And the five dollars that Gabriel has slipped her before telling her to do the same thing to his brother that she did for him did not diminish her enjoyment at all.

---

When it was all over, Luke found himself lying on his back, the coarse blanket biting into his bare shoulder, the weight of her arm draped across him. He felt drained, both emotionally and physically, and, for a few moments, he had a hard time digesting what had just happened. It wasn't until that woman, that Daisy, lifted her arm and scooted to the edge of the bed, that he understood what he had done. He had just handed his own innocence over to a _whore_. And Gabriel had done the same earlier that night. He was lying in the same bed that Gabriel had laid in with this woman. It was no wonder that Melody was upset if she knew what occurred behind the door. She obviously cared for his brother and what had his brother done? Gone to a whore instead.

He could hear Daisy as she opened the drawer of the night table next to the bed. She rummaged around the contents of the drawer for a few seconds before her butch hands found what she was looking for: matches. She struck a single match and lit the wax candle that sat atop the side table. Right away the dim room was bathed in light; Luke was surprised to see how tired Daisy looked this close. She was older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, though the excess make-up she wore served to make her seem much older. He could only tell that she wasn't as old as she tried to pass for due to the softness of her skin. She had no wrinkles and her hair, the muddy brown color that it was, was natural and not colored.

She retook her place in the bed next to him, facing him while propped up on her elbow. She was still nude and Luke had to fight to keep his eyes from straying downward. He kept on his back – it was much safer to stare at the ceiling.

"Your first time, kid?" she asked and he noticed that her voice has lost the seductive hint that had been there when she spoke to him earlier. Luke nodded, his eyes still on the ceiling. The flickering flame was casting interesting shadows and shapes against the dirty wall. He had to work hard to keep from finding obscene images within the darkness. _Sono stato corrotto, _he thought wildly, wondering whether or not he should just gather his clothes and leave.

Daisy was used to silence following her services, especially when her client was a virgin. She just reached out and began to lazily trace his upper chest; he had covered the rest of himself in embarrassment after he had gone limp. "Don't worry," she said, and Luke began to despise hearing the sound of her voice. With every syllable she uttered, she made him feel all the dirtier. "Your brother didn't even last as long as that his first time."

--

Translations:

_A cailín _– My girl (a Gaelic translation)  
_Ar ndóigh _– Of course (a Gaelic translation)  
_Tá dúil sa deoch aici, _Bittah _bochta _- She is partial to drink, poor Bittah (a Gaelic translation)  
_Che cosa…?_ – What the…?  
_Fratello piccolo _– Little brother  
_Il_ _mama morrebbe se sapesse _– Mama would die if she knew  
_No, non potrei possibilmente _– No, I couldn't possibly  
_Sono stato corrotto _– I've been corrupted


	5. V THESE HANDS

Author's Note: _Yeah, when I said that the last chapter was the hardest to write, that's before I had to encounter a bit of racism and death. Death is hard to write, I tell ya. And Gabriel? Definitely not the good big brother he ought to be. If it wasn't for the fact that we already know what happens to Rip when he 'grows up', I would feel kinda bad for him. At least I'm giving him a lot of reasons to turn into such a jackass later on in life. I just hope I get to give him a happy chapter sooner or later or he might turn on me._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

06.14.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART V

The taunts about Gabriel rang in his ear. _How dare she? How dare she bring up my brother at a time like this_, he thought and went tense under her touch. His icy eyes, devoid of the lust and emotion that had been there moments ago, narrowed in disgust as he watched one of her thick fingers fluidly move around his chest. Her proximity only made him feel dirtier. _I have to get out of here_.

But Daisy, it appeared, did not seem eager to let him go. He was soft and, if there was something that she enjoyed, it was breaking in new customers. She had to show him a good time in order to get him to come back; that was how she had hooked Gabriel Divenize. Bittah had, innocently, brought her new male friend around to the bar and, just as innocently, introduced him to the girls who worked the upstairs rooms. It only took a tiny spat between Gabriel and Bittah – their relationship hadn't progressed as quickly as he would have liked; he found Bittah's hesitancy towards forging strong bonds so soon to be an excuse – coupled with a few free drinks thrown his way to get the eldest Divenize boy in her bed. Her performance that night kept him coming back.

She had a weakness for a dark and handsome Italian man. Her mother, as Irish as Red, had run off with an Italian she had met years ago. To Daisy, such a man represented danger, represented a taboo relationship. Gabriel wasn't her first; Luke wouldn't be her last. But, while she had them, they were hers. And she wasn't too anxious to let this one go just yet.

So, when Luke tried to shy away from her, she climbed on top of him. "Where are you going, Luke?" she asked, her voice low and simpering. A leg on each side of him, she squeezed his naked chest slightly. She reached down to remove the blanket that separated them and was surprised when Luke shook his head and smacked at her hand.

"I have to go," he said and tried to sit up, hoping that Daisy would get the hint and leave him be. She scowled and moved to the side, allowing him to get up. Much of the powder and rouge that had covered her face had melted due to the sweat she worked up; he could see her face more clearly now than before and was surprised that she appeared even younger now.

But she also looked a bit miffed that he was turning down her advances. She turned onto her back and laid on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Well," she said, and her voice was now nasty, "that's two of you Divenize boys down. Why don't you bring the next in line down sometime? I don't mind them young."

This taunt stung deeper than the earlier one. He had already slid out of the small bed and was pulling on his trousers when she said it. Somewhere inside of him, he knew she was only saying it to upset him. She must have known Gabriel for longer than he had initially thought if the prostitute knew that there was more to the family. The start of a fierce anger began to well up deep within him and her tried his damndest to push it aside. The last time he had let a similar anger loose – the time when Sal Marano suggested that maybe Maria deserved to get murdered for being such a tease – he had caused one of his closest friends to have a doctor visit their home to care for his split lip and black eye. He didn't trust himself if he fell prey to his uncontrollable anger again.

Daisy did not take too lightly to being ignored by this boy. When he finished buttoning up his shirt and had just pulled on his second shoe, she reached out and covered herself with the blanket, debating on how to best get his attention. Something she remembered that Gabriel had told her in confidence one night when he was feeling vulnerable came back to her. _I have one fucked up family, Daisy. My mother's nuts and my father is a drunk. Paolo does nothing but read and Tonio is a pimp with all his little girl friends. But its Luke that is the most fucked up, I'd say. He's always had some fixation with our sister. You know, Maria? The dead one? Yeah. If he could have, I think he would have done her. But Maria, she was too much of a good girl for this kind of shit._ Then Gabriel had grinned that cocky grin he had – the grin he used when he wasn't masquerading as the 'good son' – and that was the end of that conversation.

She was hurt that this boy – this kid – was marking her as nothing but a whore for him to have and then toss aside. She needed to teach him manners. So, with a faux yawn, she turned her eyes away from him. "I see how it is, Luke. You have a thing for dead girls, I see." She glanced sideways to see his expression and smirked. The boy had paused just before leaving. "So Maria was quite a little beauty, was she? Its a pity someone did her in – I'm sure she could have made a bunch of dough riding the sheets. What do you think, Luke? Would she have made a good fuck?" Daisy knew that she might have gone a bit too far with that last remark but, honestly, what could a kid like him do?

Luke went stiff when he heard Daisy's offhanded comments. _Maria_? The mention of his sister was enough to cause the anger he was fighting to bubble out of control. He turned on the woman and jumped back into the bed. Like she had done to him earlier, he straddled the prostitute. Blinded by his anger, he didn't even see the small smirk that crossed her face. She obviously assumed that her ruse had worked. She was wrong.

He slapped her across the face one and, as her head reeled from the blow, the smile disappeared. She opened her mouth to yell for help but found she couldn't. Luke's hands were now wrapped around her throat and he was cutting of her voice. He couldn't stand to hear her voice anymore.

It wasn't until the hot breath from her mouth and nose stopped that he could remove himself from her. He moved away from the bed and took a few steps backward until his back made contact with the door. He looked over at the bed, waiting for Daisy to get up and yell at him for attacking her. When she didn't move, he moved back to the bed and poked her bare shoulder with his pointer finger. Her skin was slowly losing its warmth and he pulled his hand back at once.

The realization did not hit him right away. When it did, he, involuntarily, jerked back so that he was as far from her as possible.

_Daisy è guasto. La ho uccisa._

Backed up against the wall, Luke couldn't tear his eyes away from her body. Even with the limited light given off by the candle, he could see the bruises forming around her throat. Her tongue was lolling outside of her mouth and she had expired without closing her eyes. The smell of the waste that had escaped upon death came wafting towards him and he began to breathe shallowly through his mouth.

The stare of a dead woman did more to him than a stare from any other woman alive. Her dark eyes were accusing and he had to fight the urge to run forward and lower her lids, just so he wouldn't have to see her stare. He knew, though, that if he _did _touch her again, he would lose it. There, in the company of the strangled hooker, he was already on the brink of destruction.

In order to keep control of himself, he did the only thing he could think to do. He dropped down on his knees and, folding his hands, he began to pray. His voice was low and hoarse and the words were interrupted by his dry heaves. But, nevertheless, he prayed for her:

"_dio Tutto-potente e merciful, lodiamo a voi, Daisy, il vostro servant.  
In la vostra misericordia e l'amore, si macchia verso l'esterno tutti i sins che ha commesso con la debolezza umana.  
In questo mondo è morto: lascivi il suo in tensione con per mai.  
Chiediamo questo attraverso Christ al nostro signore.  
AMEN."_

When he was done with the simple Catholic prayer for the dead, Luke did the sign of the cross and whispered three more words: _Riposi In Pace_. He was shaking at this point but it was no longer due to disgust at his actions. The prayer he had muttered in the darkness had done what it could to absolve him. The shaking, instead, was attributed to panic. _What will I do if I get caught?_

He drew himself up off of his knees and backed into the wall again. His eyes still inexplicably drawn to Daisy's corpse, he groped behind, feeling around with his hand. When he felt the smooth feel of the knob behind him, he grabbed at it and opened the door. Then, with one final glance inside the small room, he left the dead woman alone.

---

The other door was still closed when he slid out of Daisy's room. Luke could hear sounds escaping through the thin walls that told him the room's occupants were busy. _They mustn't have heard what just happened_. He hurried past it and ran down the flight of stairs. Did he know that, a mere hour ago, when he walked up these exact stairs, that he was leaving all of his innocence behind? And, if he did know, would he have followed Daisy up anyway?

When he reached the base of the steps, he paused a second. Overwhelmed by a sense of guilt and fear, tears had found their way to his blue eyes. He wiped at them with his arm, the wetness seeping through his shirt. He used force to dry his face, enjoying the pain he was causing. It was that pain that kept him grounded at that moment.

Luke took a deep breath, trying to get the feel of her hot breath off of his skin. The feel of her clammy skin under his tightening fingers. _She deserved it_, the little voice in the back of his head said. _She was a dirty whore who deserved to die_. He nodded once and the tears stopped. The slight panic stopped. The conscience stopped.

His hand, no longer shaking, reached for the door. He stepped out into the bar. _As long as I don't do anything suspicious, they'll never know. _He closed the door marked 'private' behind him, pulling on it gently so as not to alert the other patrons to his arrival sans the harlot.

And, as he made his way out of the bar, his own self-preservation telling him he had to get out as fast as he could, he kept his eyes down. He didn't even stop to say a word to his brother, still sitting at the countertop, begging Red for a third fill of his drink.

_At least Gabriel's too busy to see me leave_, he thought as he slipped out the door. Once he was in front of the place, he turned to his right and then to his left. Could he really go home now? Stain his family with the fresh blood on his hands? Visit his mother or pray beside Maria's grave now that he was destined for Hell?

With a firm decision, and a silent farewell, Luke turned to the right.

---

He didn't realize it when his walk uptown landed him in another section of the City entirely. Luke should have known that after walking almost three hours in a single direction, he wouldn't be in the Tenderloin anymore. Nor, since he had gone in the opposite direction of his home – what _would_ he have said to Gabriel about Daisy? That she slipped in the bed and somehow strangled herself? – was he anywhere near Little Italy.

It wasn't the change of scenery that, at first, alerted him to his surroundings. True, the buildings looked a bit newer than the one's he was used to, but there were the same amount of bums and squatters hanging around this area as there were downtown. No, it was when the color of skin changed, going much darker.

His head was still buzzing with the rush that overtook him at Daisy's words. This was the greatest extent of emotion he had felt since Maria – _Riposi In Pace – _and it scared him a bit. He hadn't been able to control his anger back at _Red's Bar_; when she had said those hurtful things, he had just snapped and jumped on top of the whore. He hadn't had any sense of control during that few minutes. Just the adrenaline coursing through his body and the irrational fury that clouded his mind was all he knew. One moment he was cringing in shame and covering himself from her heavily made-up eyes, and, in the next, he had thrown the blanket from him and, in all his glory, had straddled the girl, his thick hands wrapped around her neck.

While still heading down the same avenue that he had been treading since fleeing from the bar, he was staring at his own hands. How long have these hands, hands he had always known, been capable of taking a life?

It was at that moment that he was fully aware that he had entered a place he had never been. A dark hand appeared out of nowhere and pushed down on his. It was late, he knew – had to be well past midnight at this point – and, due to the darkness, he hadn't seen himself get surrounded by a gang of Negroes. When he glanced up in annoyance, he could make out their bulking shapes and the whites of their eyes. He tried not to let his surprise show at their silent appearance. He paused. "_Che cosa desiderate, oscurità un_?" Even they couldn't miss the bite that he put behind the Italian words.

The one that stood in front of him, the biggest one who had pushed at his hands to get his attention, sneered at the sound of a foreign language. Luke couldn't help but note that he could now make out the boys' eyes and teeth. "What you doing here, white boy?" His voice was deep and taunting. It was almost as if he was daring Luke to answer him in such a manner that would warrant the beating they were aiming to give him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw that there were two boys behind him, almost as ugly as the boy that had planted himself in front of Luke. Three to one. Even though he had crossed the line from brooding teenager to accidental murderer – _I really am a murderer… I killed Daisy… My corrupted soul is going to burn in Hell for all eternity – _he had no chance in getting out of this mess. If these boys wanted to take him down, he was going. _At least I'll be with Maria again_.

He felt a shove come from behind him. "Answer him, cracker," said one of the smaller boys. Obviously, it was the biggest one who was the head of this trio; the other two must be his back-up.

The push caused him to stumble forward and he bumped into the large boy. The black boy's sneer widened and with a growl, he shoved back at the smaller boy, hitting Luke square in the chest. This 'rough 'em up' ploy must have been something that they did in order to instigate a fight because, after Luke felt the pair of fists push him back, the other two boys side-stepped him and he continued to stumble. The second shove was done with much more force than the first and he couldn't stop himself. Without the expected barrier of the other two boys, Luke fell back onto his rear.

His hunch was justified when, after he landed, the two smaller boys leaped forward and grabbed an arm each. The one on his right landed a punch into Luke's gut causing him to stop squirming. They were then able to pin his arms down at his side and force him onto his back.

The leader of the three took a step forward and placed one of his dirty boots right on top of Luke's chest, keeping him down. "Now," he said and, despite the darkness, Luke could see him reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a small knife. The rusty blade glinted slightly in the sliver of moonlight that bathed the dirt road. The big monkey of a boy loomed over him and he could hear chuckles come from the boys at his arms. He could see that the boy was as ugly as he assumed him to be, with fat cheeks – one with a three inch scar that traveled down it, meeting his chin. "I'll ask you again, white boy. What are you doing in Harlem?"

_Harlem_? Il mio Dio. _The almighty is already serving me my just punishment for that whore's death._

--

Translations:

_Daisy è guasto. La ho uccisa_. – Daisy is dead. I've killed her.  
_Riposi In Pace_ – Rest in Peace  
_dio Tutto-potente e merciful, lodiamo a voi, Daisy, il vostro servant_. - All-powerful and merciful God,we commend to you, Daisy, your servant.  
_In la vostra misericordia e l'amore, si macchia verso l'esterno tutti i sins che ha commesso con la debolezza umana_. - In your mercy and love, blot out all the sins she has committed through human weakness.  
_In questo mondo è morto: lascivi il suo in tensione con per mai_. - In this world she has died: let her live with you for ever.  
_Chiediamo questo attraverso Christ al nostro signore_. - We ask this through Christ our Lord.  
_AMEN_. - Amen  
_Che cosa desiderate, oscurità un_? - What do you want, dark ones?  
_Il mio Dio _– My God


	6. VI MACK

Author's Note: _I just wanted to say that I tried to be as fair as I could while still being historically accurate. If anything comes across as racist or sexist, I just want you to know that it is not my personal stance. This is fiction. I just got a little paranoid that I might be offending people but this is rated M for a reason. So, now that I've gotten that out of the way, here's chapter six._

Disclaimer:_ These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

06.21.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all. _

---

PART VI

His attackers did not seem pleased when all Luke did was stare blankly back at them. The dark pigment of their skin made it difficult for him to see exactly how they reacted to his refusal to answer his question; all he could see was the yellow teeth of the larger boy bared in a silent snarl. The leader of the trio put more of his weight onto the foot that was resting on Luke's chest. His snarl reverted to a sadistic grin when he heard Luke groan under the added pressure. He tried not to move; he was in fear, now, that one of his ribs would crack. "I didn't know I was in Harlem," he said, finally, taking his time to say each word. He was having a hard time trying to breathe and speaking was even rougher.

The black boy took his eyes off of his captive and, while raving his knife around, he looked at his two lackeys. "Hey, boys, did you hear that? Whitey here didn't know he was in Harlem." His voice, as gruff as it was before, was eerily pleasant. Everyone present knew that he was humoring Luke. "Well, I guess that makes a big difference, then." He made to lift his foot off of Luke's chest but, just as Luke thought that _maybe_ the boy would let him go, he put his foot back down, even harder than before. Luke had to work hard in order not to cry out. He wouldn't give the boy the satisfaction.

However, it seemed as if all the boy wanted was to hear his victim squeal out in pain. By not succumbing to the pain so far, Luke was angering his attacker all the more. He saw the boy gestured to his two boys and felt the increased pressure of their grip on his arms. They were making sure he couldn't move. Then, once he was satisfied that Luke was secure, he leaned in and brought his knife closer to Luke's throat. "Big man, are yo—"

His threats were cut off when he straightened up and, to the relief of Luke, stepped off of his chest. He whirled around as if he were searching the darkness for something. "Boys," he said, addressing his two lackeys, "we ain't alone anymore." His boys loosened their hold on Luke's arm just enough for them to be able to spin around and look at their surroundings.

That's when Luke heard the slap of something hitting the largest boy in his scarred cheek. The boy reached up the hand that held the knife and caressed his flesh. "Where are you?" he hollered and Luke felt for whoever it was that he was addressing. The boy looked even bigger and uglier now.

"Back off, darky," came the reply, a male voice thick with a New York accent. "Leave the white boy alone or else."

The large boy sneered again and glanced down at Luke. Luke tried not to let the fear show on his face. The dark boy just spit in his direction before addressing his unseen opponent. "Fuck you. Show your face!"

But it seemed like the new boy did not care to make his presence known. Instead, he yelled out one command. "Fire!"

The two boys at his side jumped up and covered their face, leaving Luke's arms free. The large boy, angered that his victim wasn't being attended to, nevertheless did the same. Little bits of glass, pellets, marbles and the like were being shot at the black boys. From his position on the ground, Luke could see that one of the smaller boys had been struck with something sharp. The dribble of blood that shimmered against his dark skin reminded Luke of the blood he had seen at Maria's murder scene. He closed his eyes. He did not like blood.

The next time he opened his eyes, a few minutes later, it was because a boy was shaking him. The boy, white skinned with fair hair and a toothy grin, leaned over him. "Are you alright, kid?"

Luke couldn't move right away. On top of everything that had happened so far that day, this was too much. Beside the short boy hovering over him, there were four others, all holding a worn slingshot. _So that's where all the debris came from_. "Yeah, I'm fine," he finally managed.

The boy nodded and leaned up. He approached his companions and, turning to the tallest of them all, he pointed back at Luke. "He's alright. Those brutes didn't get to do nothing more than knock him down, I'd wager."

The tallest boy nodded and walked over to look. He offered his hand down to Luke, who took it warily. He helped Luke to his feet. "What the hell were you doing in the Negro tenements, kid?" he asked with an expression that told Luke that _everyone _knew that this area was the Negro tenements.

Luke, adopting his emotionless demeanor, looked up to meet the boy in his eyes. "I didn't know where the hell I was. I had nowhere to go and I just found myself around here. Unfortunately for me, those boys didn't like a white boy wandering around their territory."

The boy nodded. "Hey, that's Harlem for you," he said and nodded to his boys. "Good job, Nickels, on getting us. I think he'll be alright. Now let's get back to the House." The other boys, in silent, began to walk away in the direction in which Luke had came, the smallest of the boys beaming at the praise the older boy had given.

Luke watched them go before the tallest boy turned back to him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get a move on."

Not knowing what else to do, Luke got a move on.

--

Luke followed behind the five boys that had, in essence, rescued him from the three Negroes that had tried to fight him. He wasn't sure if it was the smartest thing to do but when the tallest of the newcomers told him to follow, he did. He lagged behind and, before he knew it, the same boy had walked back to walk beside him. "Hey, kid," he began and spit in his hand. He extended it to Luke. Luke looked at the wet hand before realizing that this must be some sort of custom the street kids did. He mimicked the gesture, his own spit more of a sprinkle compared to the phlegm his companion had produced, and the boys shook. "Should have been more friendly back there. Anyway, they call me Mack," he said in way of an introduction.

Luke nodded. "I'm—" he began but Mack held his hand to his lip. Luke paused.

Mack looked him up and down. Luke felt uncomfortable but the feeling was mild in comparison to the way Daisy had made him feel when she had done the same thing earlier that evening. "Are you gonna tell me your Christian name, kid?"

Luke was confused. "What?"

"Your Christian name? You know, the one your Pops gave you when you was born." Mack reached up and pushed his light brown hair out of his hazel eyes. Absent-mindedly, Luke remembered that his own raven hair was in need of a trim. However that was not to be worried about; right now he was in Harlem, accompanying five boys – one called Mack, one called Nickels – to God knows where. "Here in Harlem, we don't go by Christian names. Mack is my nickname. Do you got a nickname, kid?" Luke tried not to bristle at the way Mack kept referring to him as 'kid'. _First Melody, now Mack. Yeah, Mack looks like he's about eighteen and is older than even Melody, but I ain't a kid. I'm a murderer, dammit._ But Luke couldn't say that. He shook his head.

Mack shrugged. "I figured. You look too clean to be from the streets. But you ain't got nowhere to go, right? That's what you said back there, right?"

"No, I don't have anywhere to go," Luke said, his voice lower than normal. _It was the truth_, he realized. _I have nowhere to go. _"There was a death and—"

Mack held up his hand. "Say no more, kid. We all got our own tales. Just don't tell your around – the other fellas don't like to listen to them, I tell ya. In fact, the other guys ain't too happy that I'm bringing you back with us to the House. But I'm the boss around here, so they do what I say." Mack stopped. "You're going to listen to what I say, too, eh, kid?"

The familiar sense of anger was beginning to grow again. But Luke, now that he knew to what extent that anger could take him, tried to quell it. If this Mack was willing to take him in, he would do what he had to. After all, he really had nowhere else to go. He nodded.

"Good," Mack said and he pointed. They had arrived at a small building. The sign hanging above it said "Harlem Lodging House" and, below the sign, there was an open door. On the porch sat four people, two large bulky boys and two young girls. The four other boys that had been with Mack nodded their greetings to the two guards – _that's what they are, I guess _– before entering the House. "Now, come with me, kid. I'll set you up with a nice bunk here. The lodging house," he said, as he gestured towards the sign, "is where we boys sleep at night. There used to be a master of the House, ol' Man Dodges, but he died a couple weeks ago. For now we just do what we please until the mayor or someone realizes. So don't get used to visiting your Negro friends so late," Mack said, and Luke could see, by using the light of a nearby streetlamp, that he was grinning a crooked smile. Faintly, Luke began to like this boy.

Mack nodded at the two boys and called them by a set of odd names. "Night, Trace. Night, Bean. Come trade posts with Shady and Jay in an hour or two." The bulky boys nodded and, though they looked at Luke questioningly, they said nothing. Mack entered the House, Luke behind him. But, once they were in the lobby, Luke stopped and, when Mack didn't hear footsteps following him toward the steps, he paused as well.

Luke turned around and nodded at the pair of girls that were sitting on the stoop of the Lodging House, just outside the entrance. "Say, what are those girls doing here? Isn't this a boys' home?" Something about the taller of the two girls reminded him of Daisy; his stomach lurched and he had to fight the heaves that threatened to rise. _I wonder if anyone has found her yet._ It had only been about four hours since he left her, dead in her bed. He glanced down at his hands, briefly. All he saw was the blood that stained them. While waiting for Mack's answer, he wiped his palms against the sides of his black trousers. They were still dirty. He had a strange feeling that they would always be so.

Mack turned and looked to see exactly what sort of girls were talking to Trace and Bean out on the stoop. He used the light of the streetlamp to gather their identities before shrugging. "Those girls are some of the whores that like to talk it up with the guys. It's a change for them, you see, to come out here and spend some time with guys who are like them. They spend so much of their time on their backs, fucking big-shots and men who don't get any from their wives. On their off time, a couple of them like to talk to the boys here – we're the type of guys they think can marry them and get them off their backs. But," Mack continued, and Luke could see his heavy-lidded eyes gazing at the pair, lustily, "what they don't figure for is that all we want to do is get them on their backs, too."

With every word that Mack said, Luke felt even sicker. He had left a whore – had killed a whore – only to be rescued by a no-good kid who's only aim in life was to bed a prostitute. _I should have taken my chances with the Negroes, _he thought. He felt his face flushing and kept his eyes roaming over everything but the two girls sitting on the porch. When Mack fell silent, he could sense that the boy was waiting for his reaction. Luke knew he should give him one but, he also knew that if he did, he would throw up. The memory of Daisy's hot breath on his hands, her clammy skin under his fingers, was hitting him full-force at that moment.

Mack turned around and looked at Luke. From the sparse candlelight that lit the lobby, he could see that the normally olive-skinned Luke had gone frightfully pale. "Hey, kid? You alright?" he asked, looking almost concerned before his eyes lit up and he smirked. "I got it. You're a virgin, ain't ya? Wondering how you can get one of them girls to make you a real man?"

If he wasn't feeling so sick, Luke might have smiled at the irony of Mack's comment. "No, I'm not a virgin," he confessed, aware that the manner in which he made the confession told Mack that he was sad to admit to his indiscretions. "And I've had enough of whores, thank you," he added. He then swallowed twice, working down the nausea that he felt. Surprisingly, once he made his admissions, he felt much better. So much better that, when Mack clapped him on the shoulder, laughing, Luke was able to smile in response.

"That's a boy," Mack said, as he left his hand on Luke's shoulder. "How old are you? About fourteen or fifteen, right?" Luke nodded. "Man, I didn't get my first lay until I was near sixteen. Did you pay for it?" This time Luke shook his head; he had no way of knowing that Gabriel had slipped Daisy five dollars before the harlot brought her young client upstairs. Mack seemed impressed at his answer. "Wow, I had to pay three dollars for my first whore. Now, though, since I run my boys around here, Cecilia lets me have any of her girls for near nothing."

Luke nodded. He was more inclined to let Mack talk about his conquests; by listening to the older boy, it would take his mind off of his own ill-fated relations with Daisy. But, as he could tell by the pregnant pause that followed Mack's latest statement, he knew it was his turn to add to the conversation. Rather than say anything about Daisy, for fear of letting slip her murder, he focused on Mack. "Who's Cecilia?"

Mack walked past Luke and nodded at the taller girl. She was slim, like Daisy, and wore too much make-up. Her long ash-blonde hair was pulled back and braided; the plait rested down her back. She was smiling coyly at the dark-haired boy, Trace, though she seemed much older than him. _She had to be over twenty,_ Luke thought and felt guilty again. Daisy wouldn't live to see twenty. He shook his head. He had to forget about the dead harlot. "That's Cecilia. She's the dame in charge of the girls around here. She's young to do it, but there's only the one brothel around here. Cecilia moved up here from a joint in Manhattan to run the place."

Luke nodded. "Oh," he said and, when Cecilia looked up and caught the two boys staring, she waved. He could feel himself paling again. Cecilia nudged her companion, a girl that seemed much younger than she; in fact, she looked to be around Luke's age. She was short and tiny, with red hair that hung down loosely to her shoulders. She looked up and blew a kiss in the boys' direction. Then the two girls began to laugh before placing their attention back on the guards.

There was something about the tiny girl that made Luke even more uncomfortable. Maybe it was her odd coloring – she was the first redhead he had ever seen, natural or colored – or her small stature – she was too young to be selling herself, if, indeed, she was one of Cecilia's girls – but Luke felt his heart begin to beat much faster. He must have made a strange face because Mack slapped him on his back and laughed. "Ah, I see that one's caught your eye. But I wouldn't bother with her," he said.

"Why not?"

Mack shrugged before pushing Luke in the direction of the stairs; it was long since time that Mack went to bed and he needed to show the new kid his bunk before he did so. It was the sort of thing the leader her did. "Because that's Spindle. And she don't fuck anybody unless they got money. Girl thinks she's the Queen of New York."

_Spindle_. His heart still beating, he dared a glance back at the redhead before following Mack up the steps. Something about the way her eyes had darted up to meet his for a brief moment told him that she might just make an exception for him.


	7. VII HELLO RIP

Author's Note: _Uck, this chapter did not want to get written. I've been working on it since last night and it was almost like pulling teeth. I guess when it gets down to the more mature themes, I just get kinda antsy when writing it out. And, dude, let me say sorry. Especially to those poor people who let me use their characters. Mack wasn't altogether too kind when describing his 'whores'._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

_Cecilia Rayner is the property of Biddy. Aisling is the property of Aisling. Minx is the property of Bookie. Thank you muchly – you don't know how appreciated it is!_

---

A Virgin's Touch

06.28.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART VII

Luke did not meet any of Cecilia's girls, Spindle included, until much later. In fact, after his first night in the Harlem bunkroom, any thought of the opposite sex was driven from his mind. He was much too preoccupied with preserving his own ass.

When Mack said that the other boys weren't happy that he was bringing Luke back, he wasn't kidding around. That first night, after Mack finally was able to tear Luke away from the Harlem House lobby, they were the last pair to enter the bunkroom. Despite the openness and leniency of the House, there were not that many boys sleeping inside. Mack had gestured to the closer bottom bunk and given it to Luke. Though he had slept in that bunk ever since, his first was not comfortable. One of the other boys had pissed at the foot of the bed as a way to say 'Welcome'.

He learned quickly that the boys who lived inside the Harlem Lodging House were those who didn't have a home anywhere else. They were runaways, orphans, scavengers, thieves who masquerade as daily newspaper peddlers; on a normal circumstance, Luke would have wanted nothing to do with these boys. But come that muggy August of 1893, life was no longer normal for the second-born Divenize. In the simplest of terms, Luke was no longer a Divenize. He wasn't too sure what he was anymore.

The other boys could tell right from the outset that Luke did not share in their humble beginnings. His appearance, with his tanned skin, raven colored hair and cold blue eyes, marked him as different right away; most of the others were fair-skinned with a mop of brown hair each and too many freckles too count. His clothes, when they found him that first night, were hand-tailored and barely faded. Apart from a head of hair that seemed months overdue for a trim, they knew Luke came from somewhere far better than they. He was envied – and, therefore, bullied – almost at once.

If it wasn't for Mack's immediate liking of Luke, the boy wouldn't have lasted that first month. The pranks, harmless though cruel in their design, gradually lessened and eventually ceased. Luke knew it was because Mack ordered his boys to lay off of him. He never said thank you.

It was at the close of his first month living in the Harlem House that Luke finally found his nickname. Before then, the other boys referred to him as "Kid" – someone noticed how quiet and withdrawn he got whenever being addressed as "Kid" and the name stuck; they thought it was funny to call Luke a name that obviously made him angry – or, because of his hair – that had not been cut in the six months since Maria's murder – "Shaggy". Luke did not like either name so it was him that eventually came up with his own nickname.

It came on the one-month anniversary of Daisy's death and Luke's arrival in Harlem. None of the boys had asked any questions of Luke other than Mack; Mack seemed to be the only boy there even remotely interested in Luke. And almost all of Mack's inquiries related back to any conquests that Luke might have made. Mack was a pervert and, when Luke only offered minor information about his encounter with Daisy – for obvious reasons – he was more than happy to tell of his own experiences with women.

That night, Luke decided to go to bed much earlier than the other boys. He knew that Mack had made an arrangement with Cecilia to send one of her girls, Minx as it turned out, over to the house for an evening in the side room of the small Harlem House. Without Mack to keep the other boys off of his back – they had let up on their teasing of Luke but, when the times presenting themselves, Rocky and Trace couldn't resist a quick joke – Luke figured it would be smarter to just go to bed. That, and it had been hard enough living through the month anniversary of becoming a murderer. To every woman he attempted to sell a newspaper, he saw Daisy's made-up face or Melody's hardened expression; every man was Gabriel, drunk yet eager to drink more. It had been torture for the boy.

Before he climbed into his lower bunk, the last one on the end, Luke got down on his knees. He folded his hands and placed them on the thin sheet that lay mussed on the small bed. After he was in position, Luke closed his eyes and began to pray. He prayed for the health and mind of his mother. He prayed for the sobriety of his father and Gabriel. He prayed for the futures of Paolo and Tonio. And, lastly, he prayed for the souls of Maria and the harlot, Daisy. He ended his silent prayers the same way he did every night: with a whispered _Riposi in Pace._

While he had been alone in the bunkroom when he began his prayers, when he opened his eyes to remove his scuffed black shoes in order to climb into bed, he had company. Mack was standing beside him, a smirk crossing his dirt-stained face. "What you doing, kid?"

Luke swallowed just then. He took a breath and shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Looked to me like you were praying." Surprisingly, Mack did not sound condescending or even like he thought the idea of a newsboy praying was amusing. He sounded like he was almost in awe or such a sight.

"So?" A sense of frustration snuck into Luke's voice.

Mack held up his hands. "Calm down, kid. I just haven't seen anyone go down on their knees like that for a while. Except for the whores, you know, but they ain't praying. You got a thing for God?"

Again, Luke shrugged. "I know I'm going to Hell but it makes me feel a little bit better about myself when I pray. My mother taught me that."

Mack nodded. "That's good. But what was that fancy talk you said. It's been awhile since I've been to Church and all, but that didn't sound like 'Our Father' or 'Hail Mary' to me."

"It was just something in Italian," Luke said, and, all of a sudden, he was uncomfortable. Most of the boys in the Harlem House were Irish; as hard as he tried to speak without an accent and not use any Italian, sometimes it just snuck out. How would Mack take it?

Mack, it seemed, didn't care what ethnicity Luke was. "What was it? I ain't heard no Italian before."

"All I said was '_Riposi in Pace'_. You know, 'Rest in Peace'? It's just something I say when I remember Ma—people that I've lost," he amended quickly. As much as he was sharing with Mack just then, Luke knew he would always keep Maria to himself.

"'Rest in Peace'? Like 'R.I.P.'? Cool. I need a saying like that," Mack said and smirked again and, waving his hand in a sign of farewell, he left to go find Minx. _Leave it to him to misunderstand what my prayers meant._

But, just then, it dawned on Luke. _R.I.P… Rip. _Maybe Mack was right – but, rather than a saying, maybe if could be a nickname. Luke shook his head slightly as he waved away Mack. It _would _be his nickname.

_Goodbye Luke Divenize._

_Hello Rip._

--

So, it was well into his second month, that Luke – now referred to solely as Rip and nowhere near as intimidated as he was when Mack and the others rescued him from the Negroes – had earned enough money selling the morning and evening edition of the _New York Sun_ to warrant himself a night with one of Cecilia Rayner's whores. The young adult was eager to try again; he had grown as a man in those few weeks following his ill-fated first night with a woman. This time he would be in control. This time he would allow himself to be pleasured. And, this time, it would be acceptable because she was being paid. While the girl he chose would be a whore, she wouldn't be a loose whore who spread her legs to just anyone as Daisy had. He wanted a girl who did what she did in order to earn her own way.

When Mack heard that his boy, Rip, was eager to score with one of Cecilia's girls, he sat his young friend down to give him some advice. While one would assume that the advice Mack, as a boy a few years older than Rip, would give would be almost fatherly, that was quite unlike Mack. When he, with his arm around a tense Rip's shoulder, steered his young protégé out of the Harlem House and began to walk him to Cecilia's establishment about six blocks over, the advice he had was as far from appropriate as possible. He was offering Rip his opinions on which whores were best to bed.

The first girl he mentioned was Cecilia herself. According to Mack, she had been the first whore he had purchased; he was sixteen at the time, Cecilia was nineteen. She had just moved to Harlem and, before she could take over the brothel, she needed to prove herself to her Madam. She had to sleep with one hundred clients in her first month, and turn over all her profits to the brothel. Mack, as he boasted proudly, was number one hundred – she was so desperate, that last day, that she accepted his offer of three dollars just so she could have her one hundred clients. And, as he said just as proudly, Cecilia was probably the best fuck he ever had. Even after one month, she was still as good as he expected.

The next girl that was mentioned very highly was Minx, the girl who had visited him in the side house last month. While Cecilia required all of her girls' business to be done within the brothel, Cecilia made minor exceptions for Mack. If the Harlem leader wanted a quick lay, she wasn't above sending a girl out. But, as Mack said solemnly, he preferred being inside the brothel. The sheets were much softer and the girls weren't as skittish as dropping all their clothes. Minx, he elaborated, was about three years younger than him, and was fairly naïve. She wasn't a regular girl of Cecilia's; she only sold herself when it was necessary. But, Mack confided, he would wait for Minx, any day. She was that damn good.

Then there was Aisling. Mack couldn't say her name without licking his lips and Rip had to fight from rolling his eyes. _Was this really a good idea?_ He was sure that it was necessary to go to the brothel and make a new memory that would replace the one he had with Daisy. But why had he allowed Mack to come with him?

Aisling, Mack continued, oblivious to Rip's obvious discomfort, was tall and thin but had one of the best sets of tits he had ever seen. She was attractive and she knew it; more than anything, she loved to hear that, too. Mack had learned that early on in his experience with her. He knew if he worked her ego, he could get her to do anything he wanted. For obvious reasons, Aisling was one of his favorites.

It was then, when Mack took a break to think of the next girl he wanted to discuss, that Rip mentioned the one girl that, apart from a certain thirteen-year old virgin whose innocence lulled him to sleep at night, lit him on fire. "What about Spindle?" _Spindle_. There was something about that petite redhead that got to him. Maybe it was the way she eyed him that first night he arrived; maybe it was because she looked as hard as he felt on the inside.

Mack's face dropped then. His hazel eyes narrowed at Rip and he stopped. Since his arm was still slung around Rip's shoulders, Rip had to stop as well. "Spindle? What about that bitch?"

Rip didn't know how to answer that. But that's alright, Mack didn't give him the chance to answer. "I'm gonna tell you one thing, Rip. If you go inside that joint and the dame at the desk takes you to Spindle's room, haul your ass out of that place. Trust me – I'll refund your dough to you. Anything's better than sleeping with _that _girl." He said it with such passion that Rip knew that if he didn't agree, he better not go back to the Harlem House. Piss in his bunk would be too good for him at that point.

"Okay, Mack. I was just wondering. Besides, I haven't met Minx or Aisling yet, so I couldn't really put a name to a face. I saw that Spindle broad, and I just, you know," Rip said, quite surprised at Mack's reaction.

And then, almost as if that awkward moment never happened, Mack was smirking again and another dirty comment was begging to escape from his mouth. "What's all this talk about names and faces, Rip? They're broads. You don't need to see their faces to fuck them, eh?"

Rip just nodded, wishing that Mack would leave him be. The weight of his arm was making him all the nervous; his body odor was making his nervousness turn to nausea.

That's when Mack went back to his earlier discussion and began to tell Rip about Sue. Sue, turns out, was an English girl and was just fun because she referred to her job as 'shagging.' Shagging, Mack had said, fighting back a laugh, shagging! It was on the differences that Mack noticed between 'shagging' and 'fucking' that Rip's nerves finally got the best of him and his thoughts turned to what he would be doing in a rented bed just moments from them.

Shaking his head in order to rid himself of such intimidating thoughts, Rip wondered briefly just how many girls it was that Mack had slept with from Cecilia's brothel when his imposing mentor came to a stop. Mack stopped in his narrative as she nudged Rip in the side. "Here you are, buddy," he said and winked one of his hazel eyes. "Just go inside, give half of your money to whichever girl they have working the desk and go to the room she assigns you. Until they get to know you, they're gonna assign you one of the whores, but you should be alright. I haven't had a bad lay yet from one of Cecilia's girls."

Rip nodded and, when he felt the familiar sense of shame begin to rise, he forcibly pushed it aside. As God-fearing a boy as it was possible for him to be, Rip knew it was wrong to touch himself in inappropriate manners; after his first taste of sexual pleasure, his hormones had nearly cried out for more, despite the unpleasantness of Daisy's murder and there was no one to help relieve the pressure he constantly felt rising. This trip to the brothel would serve two purposed; he would redeem himself for the way he regrettably lost his innocence to the harlot of _Red's Bar _and he would, truly, make himself a man – of his own free will. He knew better now. He would come out the victor. And, maybe, if he had as many conquest stories as the other boys of the Harlem House, he would earn some respect.

So, with a deep breath and a steely glance forward, Rip left Mack waiting outside. He straightened his shirt, brushed back his shaggy black hair and opened the door to Cecilia's. He was going in a tainted boy. He would exit a true man.

With this experience, losing his lust with a paid whore, he was truly losing the dirty, murderous skin of Luke Divenize.

_Hello Rip._


	8. VIII HER EYES

Author's Note: _Yeah, you guys must think I totally suck. Not only am I nearly two days late with this chapter – whoops! – but it's also the shortest I've done so far – double whoops! I guess I could blame it on the 4th of July, or the really bad cramps I've been having – being a girl really does sucks sometimes – but I should just be honest: I've grown slightly bored of my own fan fiction. This happens a bit; I get all gung ho on my stories and work on them until I go through a phase where I just let them wait around for me a bit. However, this story is about 50-60 percent done as it is, so I thought I would try to get past my writer's block on it. I want to have it done by the time the summer is finished. So, here it is. And, I'm sorry to my dear, Biddy :) Unfortunately, Spindle and Rip are destined to have some sort of relationship though, as witnessed in the stories that follow this (CLAK, SBTL & OYA), their relationship is real screwy. I hope I captured that with the end of this chapter. Enjoy. Next chapter should be next Wednesday as planned._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

_Aisling is the property of Aisling. Yay :)_

---

A Virgin's Touch

07.06.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART VIII

As soon as she was done, Aisling, the girl assigned to him that night, held out her hand for the second half of her payment. Rip reached over the side of the small bed and grabbed the small bag of coins he had saved over the past month and had stashed in his back pocket. Without a word, he handed it over to the girl with reddish-blonde hair. She had been worth every penny.

With a shake of her bare chest – and a coy laugh when Rip reached out boldly for another squeeze – Aisling slid out of the bed. "I have another client coming in a few minutes. I'm going to go get washed up," she said, as she picked up her robe from the floor and, to Rip's dismay, covered herself up with it. "You have until I get back to the room to get dressed and get out of here, alright?"

He nodded. She had let him be the dominant in their romp; he figured, now that he was done, it wouldn't hurt to listen to her for once. She had, after all, listened to him the entire time they were in bed.

Aisling smiled at him before blowing him a kiss. "I'll see you soon," she said and slipped out of the room.

Rip remained on his back for a few seconds longer, staring up at the ceiling. In a way that even he couldn't describe, he felt different. He felt _cleaner_, almost, even with the slick sweat of Aisling that still coated his chest. And he felt a whole lot lighter. With his release, he had said goodbye to the phantom of Daisy that had been weighing him down. _I'll see you soon_, Aisling had said. She was damn right.

With a regretful sigh, Rip tossed the coverlet aside and climbed out of the bed. As small as the bed in Cecilia's brothel was, it was much better than the bunk he called his own in the Harlem House. Especially since it came with a girl. _Pity it cost me a month's savings, _he smirked as he pulled his black slacks on.

His socks followed the pants and he hissed when he noticed that the right one had a large hole in it; he had managed to scrimp an extra pair of pants, two shirts and a union suit (for when it was cold – he hadn't bother on wearing it to the brothel) during his stay at the House from boys who either left the House or neglected to watch their own clothing. His first month out on his own, Rip had learned quickly to cover his own ass and get what he needed. It was a lesson hard learned after he caught Trace trying to steal his cross necklace off of his own neck while sleeping.

A hole in one of the two socks he had meant that it would be all the longer until he could afford to come back to the brothel. Inexplicably, Rip felt the familiar twinges of anger. _Fucking sock,_ he thought as he jammed his foot into his shoe. Still angry – angry at the shoddiness of the sock, wearing out after only a month's constant use; angry at himself for not noticing the hole earlier – Rip gripped his laces and tugged. The lace in his left hand broke in half.

"God damn it!" he swore and threw the brown lace to the floor. "Now I gotta get new shoes, too," he said and sat back down on the bed. He took a deep breath and, trying to relax and let go of his anger, he tied a knot into his left shoe. The right he left undone as he bent down and picked the faded blue shirt off of the floor. He shrugged it on and, without bothering to do more than the middle two buttons, choosing to jam the lower half of the shirt into his pants, Rip exited the room.

He lowered his gaze as he filtered out into the main hallway. He bumped into a well-dressed man, at least twenty years his senior, and said nothing though he felt the anger rise again. He paused for a moment and watched as the man stopped just outside Aisling's door, straightening his tie before knocking on the door. Rip smirked. _Bum's gotta wait for his lay_, he thought before continuing out of the brothel. The anger subsided slightly. _I'm better for her than that guy. _He smugly thought back to the time he had shared with Aisling. _Much better_.

--

It was dark when he got outside and the mid October chill had already began to creep into the night air. Shivering slightly, and using his fingers to quickly button the three undone buttons of his shirt, Rip wished he had thought to bring his union suit with him. The body-covering suit would have kept his thin frame all the warmer, even though it was a size too big and covered his hands; the boy he had nicked it from, Snaps, was a larger boy who had moved out of the Harlem House two weeks ago. According to Mack, Snaps had made a female friend downtown and had moved to another House to be nearer to her. But, since it was Mack who told him, of course it came down to a girl. _Pervert_, he thought as he crossed his arms over his chest for warmth.

This was one of the first times since his arrival a month and a half before that Rip found himself out of the Harlem House at night. Despite the fact that the Children's Aid Society had not detected the absence of an adult keeper of the House since the old keeper, a Mister Dodges, died on the job over two months ago. Mack said that they only sent someone out every three months or so if there isn't a complaint and, without a keeper to say anything against it, there had been no complaints about the boys' behavior; the neighbors surrounding the house had no desire to tell on the boys as long as they let the neighbor's be. It was a comfortable agreement for them all.

Rip, on the other hand, felt better about himself if he went back to the Harlem House before the sun went down. For one thing, he could say his prayers without fear of anyone seeing; the other boys were taking advantage of their newfound freedom by staying out as late as they wanted. For another thing, Rip found that if he went to bed early, there was a bed for him. One of the first nights he had followed Mack's advice and stayed out, he had returned to find a newcomer passed out in his bunk. It had taken two days of airing out his sheet to get the stink out.

Now, however, Rip was enjoying the silence that the nighttime stroll back to the House awarded him. He had no worries that his bed would be occupied; Mack had assured him that he would keep an eye on it himself. And, if he got back at a time when the boys were either out or asleep, he could still perform his nightly prayers as usual. This time he felt that, when he said his prayers for Daisy, he would be further absolved.

"Hey."

Rip stopped his walk. Automatically he dropped his hands to his sides, adopting a more defensive stance. After his run-in with the three hoodlums guarding the Negro tenements, Rip had become more wary of nighttime visitors. This time he wouldn't give them the chance to attack. He spun around so that he was facing the person who had called out to him. "What?" He couldn't see anyone right away. While the brothel wasn't that far from the House, he had only managed to get about three blocks away. He still had a few more to go until he was back home and, where he was, there wasn't much light. It was a perfect opportunity for a fight; Rip could think of many of the boys who would love to take advantage of him when Mack wasn't around for protection.

But, surprisingly, the person that walked over to him was not looking for a fight – nor was the person one of the boys. The girl had been sitting on a porch of a nearby building and, when she saw Rip walk by, had called out to him. Despite his apprehensive attitude, she was not intimidated by him. She smoothly got to her feet, a long dark skirt extending down so that only her bare feet were visible in the limited light. The closer he got, the more features that stood out: she was short, much shorter than he, and had very fair skin; she had long hair, darker than lighter, though he couldn't determine the shade; her nose was slightly upturned and she was smiling – he could see her teeth glinting. "Hey," she said again, as she sidled up to him and reached one of her petite hands out before resting it on his shoulder.

Rip tensed at the touch but the rigidity lasted only a few seconds before he recognized the girl.

_Spindle_.

Briefly, Mack's words from earlier than evening came rushing back. _I'm gonna tell you one thing, Rip. If you go inside that joint and the dame at the desk takes you to Spindle's room, haul your ass out of that place. Trust me – I'll refund your dough to you. Anything's better than sleeping with _that _girl. _He had said it so vehemently – and so un-Mack-like – that Rip wondered if he should just excuse himself and hurry back to the House.

That was when Spindle's fingers began to roam. While they began their trek, resting on his shoulder, she quickly began to run them up and down his arm before reaching under his shirt and rubbing his chest. Ignoring the voice in his head that told him that he should just get out of the situation – and wondering just how Spindle had pulled his shirt out of his pants in order to insert her hand without him realizing it – Rip let her do it. He realized just then that he hadn't worked out all his sexual desires in that room with Aisling. This girl was getting him all excited again – and he hadn't a dime to pay her, either. _Maybe I should tell her to stop…_

But he found he couldn't. For some reason, he could not get his mouth to say the words. Instead, Rip just grabbed her thin hand with his bigger one and pulled it down. He did not need any words; Spindle got the hint right there.

She was standing directly in front of him, so close that he could see the surprised smile that momentarily crossed her face when he caused her to stop. The smile was short-lived however, and followed by a dark look in her green eyes. She blinked once and, in that look, Rip saw something that he would think about the rest of his walk back to the Harlem House.

In her eyes, Rip saw the emotionless expression of one who was dead inside and was only kept alive by the air their lungs involuntarily took in. He saw sadness, and hurt. He saw hardships, and loss.

In her eyes, he saw death. And he saw loneliness.

In her eyes, he saw himself staring back at her. His blue eyes were a reflection of the torment that was shown in her green eyes.

And, as he slipped into the small bunk that Mack had kept empty for him, he thought he might have just understood what Mack meant about Spindle after all.


	9. IX BELLEZZA DI SONNO

Author's Note: _Okay, I made up for that uber short chapter last week with the longest chapter to date. This is almost like the background chapter to Spindle. After undertaking this project to give Rip a history, I didn't want to have to do the same thing for Spindle. Instead, I gave her brief history, as while as the meaning behind her nickname, in this chapter. It also is the start to their very twisted relationship. Aren't we all excited?_

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

07.12.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
__Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART IX

It was much later when Rip ran into Spindle again. Autumn had given way to winter; the leaves from the trees that dotted the dirt roads had all fallen and been washed away by the late October rain. Thanksgiving had already passed; it was then when the Children's Aid Society finally learned that the Harlem House was without a keeper. A large group of well-to-do women, taken a break from their busy Socialite lives, sponsored a large dinner that year for the orphans of the city. There was a grand meal, that Thanksgiving; it was Rip's first celebration of the holiday that made him feel as if he were a true American. They served turkey and boiled ham, celery, mashed potatoes and turnips, tea, and pies. Mack had sweet-talked one of the younger daughters of the women into letting him take away a whole apple pie back to the Harlem House; it was also he who let slip that Dodges had died. She, in turn, told her mother. A new keeper was sent the next week.

No, it was in the first week of December, in 1893, when he encountered the red-headed young prostitute for the third time. It was a cold day, and the ground was a mess of slushy snow. Winter had reared its ugly head early; the first snow storm came the Thursday following Thanksgiving. The season promised to be vicious and Rip wondered how he would survive his first winter on the street. He no longer had the fleeting desire to return back to Little Italy and rejoin his family. _I don't have a family_.

After the arrival of a man called Smith, employed by the Society to bring order back to the Harlem House, most of the boys had disappeared. Smith required them all to pay their lodging fare – six cents a night – as well as six cents for the supper served in a small dining hall, across the street from the House. Many boys had grown accustomed to making their money by selling and blowing it almost right away. Not many of them had the six cents to spare and had to sleep outside. Rip, who had never slept a night outside in his life, sold all the more papers so that he would be guaranteed to have lodging fare.

But, with at least twelve cents a day going to room and board, that left Rip with very little money to spend on himself. That first time he spent at Cecilia's brothel boded to be the last unless Rip saved up enough money to go back without going hungry. As it was, he had to punch a few additional holes in his one belt to keep his slacks up for all the weight he had lost in the three months he had been in Harlem.

So, when Rip met up with Spindle, it was a pleasant surprise. She was the first familiar female face he had seen in weeks. Smith also reinforced the rule that no girl or woman was to visit the Harlem House without permission. Mack learned the hard way that Smith was not willing to give permission to his whores; he had begun making visits to Cecilia's brothel and staying over on the nights when he, himself, did not have lodging fare. Rip, on the other hand, did not have such a close relationship with Cecilia Rayner and, therefore, did not get the same privileges as Mack. He took to conjuring up the image of a dead prostitute within his head when his thoughts turned perverted. That usually took care of his urges.

He was on his way back to the Harlem House when he saw Spindle again. The wind was blowing quite fiercely and Rip had drawn his hands within his thin shirt to conserve his body heat. He had already finished selling for the day; it was just approaching ten in the morning and he had sold enough papers – fifteen, to be exact, the only amount he had purchased from the clerk at the Distribution Center – to ensure that he had a hot supper and a roof over his head that night. He was very clearly desperate to be inside the House in order to stave off the cold that was threatening to overtake him. And that's when he heard her voice.

Like that other time they had met, Spindle called out to him first. She was wearing that same dark skirt, with a beige blouse but the fieriness of her red hair stood out amid the dreary setting of the city. This time, he recognized her at once. "Hey," she said, as she hurriedly ran down the street towards him. She had been walking in the opposite direction than he – _probably on her way to the brothel, _he assumed – and saw him first. She seemed excited to see him. At least, her emerald eyes were lit up this time, without the trace of sadness that he had seen before.

Rip looked over at her. He briefly noticed, as she ran through the crunchy, dirty snow that was left from the storm of the week before, that she was no longer barefoot; she was wearing a small set of dark heeled shoes that clicked as she went. Her red hair, straight and limp, hung around her shoulders and fanned as the wind pushed against it. Her pale skin had a rosy tint on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She was as cold as he was. "Hello," he said flatly. He had not forgotten Mack's words from before. Nor had he forgotten the strange look he had spied in her eyes that night.

When she was standing right in front of him, she turned on her heel and began to walk with him forward. She saw that his hands were inside his sleeves and smirked slightly. "Cold, Rip?"

He started to nod but stopped almost at once. His feet followed the example of his head and he paused in the middle of the road. He turned to his right and narrowed his blue eyes on her cheeky face. "How did you know my name?" he asked. His voice was low just then but laced with a hidden meaning: She had better have a good explanation or he might get angry. Rip hadn't made many friends with the other child laborers he saw in the city. Of them all, the only friend he had was Mack – and that was stretching it as it were. How, then, if they had never been introduced, did she know his name. He only knew her name because Mack knew the names of all of the girls. He doubted, after all the nasty things Mack said about Spindle, that the older boy went back and told her about him.

She shrugged. "I know a lot of things," she answered vaguely.

"That's not much of answer." Rip still had not begun to move. Despite the cold, he refused to take another step until this girl told him the truth. There was something about her that made him raise his guard while still being intrigued by her presence. He didn't like the way this girl was making him feel. He hadn't felt this strange since long before Maria died. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to feel this way again.

Spindle was still smiling over at him. The smile was still there as she shivered from the cold. "I'd be more than happy to answer your questions, Rip, but don't you think we would be better off inside?"

"Girls aren't allowed in the House."

She rolled her eyes. "Minx and Aisling told me all about that silly rule your Mister Smith came up with."

_Aisling? _Rip hadn't forgotten about her. Now that was a girl that made him feel the way he liked. "Yeah, well, you can't come with me back to the House, so I think you better start talking now."

Spindle shook her head while rubbing her arms with her hands. The wind was still whipping and it was cutting right through her blouse. "Look, I'll start talking once I'm warm. Come on," she added, as she reached he hand out to grab his arm. Surprisingly, he did not move away from her touch. "You can head back with me to Cecilia's place. It's warm in there."

--

Spindle was right. As he followed her inside the brothel, he felt the warmth wash over him and was glad that he had given in and gone with her. He might not have shown it while outside, but if he had stayed there much longer in order to talk with the girl, he would have frozen.

He did, however, feel slightly uncomfortable heading inside the brothel when he knew he had no extra money on him. He was pretty sure that if they asked for his money in advance, to book a room, they would kick him out once they discovered he had no money.

But, as it turns out, Spindle was able to take care of that situation. As soon as they entered the building, the small girl who took the first half of the money off the client, glanced up and motioned to the pair to come to her desk.

She was still young, though she appeared to be a little older than they were – maybe fifteen or so. She was short, with fair skin, and chestnut hair that extended just past her shoulders. Her green eyes narrowed when she spied Spindle. "Caity," she said and, briefly, Rip wondered who she was referring to. Then he remembered that Spindle could hardly be her Christian name. "Aren't you going to sign your friend in?"

Spindle's face darkened and the smile she had worn while talking with Rip disappeared. "Ellie, I told you to call me Spindle."

The girl, Ellie, looked just as annoyed as Spindle did. "Then call me Gimmick," she replied before picking up the locked box that sat atop her desk. Rip recognized the box. It was the same box where the girl had locked away the first half of his money – the share of coins that he didn't just give to Aisling – that first time he came to the brothel.

Spindle took one glance at the box and shook her head. "You don't need to worry about that, Gimmick. He already gave me the first half."

Gimmick looked wary but eventually lowered the box. Spindle was one of the best girls in the brothel and always shared her take. She would give the box its share after she was done with her client. That's when she noticed the boy that was with the redhead. He was tall and lanky but appeared to be approaching fifteen years himself. However, Spindle was known for bringing in the oldest of the brothel's clients. As long as Gimmick had been sitting behind the front desk, she had never seen a man under the age of thirty come in for Spindle, specifically.

Then again, Gimmick noted, this boy was exceptionally handsome. He had the dirty look of a street rat about him but it was fresh. He couldn't have been living on the streets for too long; he even smelled cleaner than the other boys that came in.

"Go ahead," she said, as she waved Spindle and the boy on through. "Your normal room is free and I don't have any appointments listed for you until much later tonight," she added. It was not unusual for a man to visit the brothel early in the morning – that was the time that their unsuspecting wives thought they were at work – but Cecilia's place did the most business at night. Harlem was a small, but growing, community that did not appreciate an active brothel. As long as most of the clients and whores went about their business at night when it could be overlooked, they let it function. It was when people came and went in broad daylight that the citizens of the city grew offended.

Spindle nodded and grabbed at Rip's hand. The boy let her take it and followed her down the hallway. His icy eyes strayed just off to the left, where Aisling's room was, but continued on past it. Spindle's room was the last one on the right. She knocked on it, just in case, and when no one answered, she opened the door and ushered Rip inside.

As soon as they were inside, and Spindle had locked the door behind him, the girl let out a high-pitched giggle that sounded odd. Maybe it was because he hadn't heard the sound of laughter in awhile; maybe it was because the way she laughed made her sound just a little off. Rip was betting on the second option.

"That Ellie, what an idiot," she said as she flopped herself down on the bed. The room was dark – the curtains were pulled – and Rip looked around eagerly for a candle to light. When he couldn't find one, he just walked across the small room and opened the drapes. He felt much better with light illuminating the room. "She really thinks that I split my takings with her."

When Rip looked at her with confusion, she elaborated. "That girl out there? Ellie? Well, she's too much of a prude to have her own bed so Cecilia lets her operate the lockbox. She's supposed to make sure that all of us give her half of what we make before we even let our clients in. But, what I do, is usually bring my clients in and get the money from them. Then I give Ellie about a third of it and she's satisfied. She never knows that I milk extra money from those old geezers."

Rip just nodded. It was one thing to turn to a whore for his own needs but it was another to listen to one discuss her line of work. It was hard for him to imagine people other than him and Mack who visited this brothel. It made him feel dirty. He could only imagine how Spindle felt.

Not wanting to focus on that thought any further, Rip turned back to the topic that brought him with her to the brothel to begin with. But, before he could ask her how she knew about him, he thought he would learn a little bit about her. "So, which is it?"

"What?" While still sitting on the bed, she was no longer lying on it. She had adopted a cross legged pose and looked all the younger for it.

"Which is it? Your name? Is it Caity," he began, thinking back to the name he had heard Gimmick call her, "or is it Spindle?"

A dark look crossed her face but was gone in an instant; Rip was sure he saw it only because the light from the window was directed right across her in a most flattering way. He had to admit she was quite pretty in a unique way. "Caitlin, really," she answered. "Caitlin Scott was the name I was given, but it's not a good name to have when you're selling yourself. Some of the clients might know a Caitlin or a Scott girl and get uncomfortable. So I go by my old nickname – Spindle."

Rip, always one to jump on one's ethnicity, focused on her surname. "Scott? So I take it you are Scottish, then? I mean, red hair and all, I thought you'd be Irish."

She paused and he could tell that this topic was making her uncomfortable. _Good_, he thought. Strangely, he found that he liked to make her squirm. She was such a forward young girl, it made him feel better to be in control. "Actually," she began, and her voice seemed much deeper, "I don't know what the Hell I am. I grew up in an orphanage in Queens. The matron there gave me her last name, since I was a foundling. All they ever knew was that my Mama was a whore just like me. I stayed there until I was about twelve and left. I ran into Cecilia while working the streets. She told me that men would pay for the opportunity to fuck a redhead so I came with her to her brothel. When she moved here, I followed."

Rip was quite surprised to hear Spindle's story so soon. He had learned from experience in the Harlem House that most kids on the street had a story – but none of them would ever share it. Why, then, was this girl telling her secrets to him? _I admit it, I'm interested._

Spindle noticed that the guarded expression Rip wore was slowly fading. She had to try to hide a smile. Rather than lose his interest, she continued in her story. "That was two years ago," she said and Rip knew then that she was his age, "and it's been one hell of a life. The kids down at the orphanage used to tell me that I'd grow up to be nothing but a whore like my Mama and I guess I proved them right. But who's the one with a job, a roof over their head, and money in their pocket, hmm?"

Rip couldn't help but to think that it wasn't that great of a job – if he had been in her shoes, he would have chosen a factory job over selling herself – but she seemed proud of herself.

There was pause then and he worried that she might ask him about himself. He knew that she already knew his name – or, at least, his nickname. He didn't want to offer any other information to her. So, rather than wait for her to ask questions of him, he asked another question of her. "Why 'Spindle'?"

"Why the name 'Spindle'?" she asked. He nodded. "It's a silly story, really. Did you ever hear of that old fairy story, 'Sleeping Beauty'?" He nodded again. _Bellezza Di Sonno_ had been one of Maria's favorite bedtime stories. "The pretty little thing that pricked her finger on a spindle and died or fell asleep or something. Well, they always told me that I was Mama Scott's favorite child in the orphanage – she had given me her name and everything. And that, as the favorite, I was cursed to die before I hit sixteen, just like that princess did. In Mama Scott's orphanage, you left when you were sixteen, so they thought it was funny," she added, as if that made any sense. Rip nodded again and she continued. "Those idiots came to calling me 'Spindle' then. I hated the name and the way they teased me and, when I was twelve, there was an accident in the orphanage. One of the older girls got cut with a knife. They all seemed to think I did it, so I took off. As a 'fuck you' to those brats, I kept the name Spindle."

Rip, nodded one last time, before turning his eyes to the door. Now he was sure he knew why Mack said to stay away from this girl. But, strangely, something kept him from leaving her room. With a twisted grin on his face, he turned back to her. "So, did you do it?" They both knew he was referring to the accident with the knife. _Maybe I'm not the only one who can't control my anger_, he thought. Without even wanting to, he was letting himself be drawn in by this red-headed vixen.

Her cruel smile matched his and he knew the truth. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

That's when Rip sat down with her on the bed. And, when she reached over and let her hand resume its trek past the waistline of his slacks like she had last time they had met – this time, he let her do it.


	10. X GONE

Author's Note: _Another turning point, yea. This story is coming along nicely – I only have a few more big plot points before this story is done. I guess that's one good thing about writing a companion piece to another story – you always know where your characters are going. Woot._

_I did realize a stupid mistake that was kind of huge. I kept referring to the date as 1895 but it's not – it was 1893. I'm going to go back and fix that later, but, just so you know, the 1894 is correct._

_And, yes, the Maria lust-references are intentional. She'll be coming back into the story in a big way within the next few chapters (and her murder will be solved)._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

07.26.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART X

Christmas came and went just as quickly as Thanksgiving did. The feast thrown by the Children's Aid Society was just as large and enjoyable as the one from November; this time, Mack was able to get an apple pie, a figgy pudding and the name of the daughter he had been skirt-chasing since the last feast (Sophia Grant). Mr. Smith made the toast for the season and offered free lodging fare for the week following Christmas. As the winter season had proven to be as bad as the first snowstorm suggested, the bunks were very crowded that week.

Rip's birthday came that first week of January, January 3rd to be exact. He had been born in 1879, making him now fifteen years of age. For the first time in a while, Rip thought back to the family he had left behind and whether or not they remembered if it was his birthday. He wondered how his brothers were doing and if his mother's sickness had been cured yet. And he thought about Maria.

He thought about Maria more and more those days. When he wasn't selling, or spending his time with Spindle, he would lay in his bunk and think about his sister. She would have been fourteen on the 11th of December and he had found it hard not to leave Harlem and spend that day sitting beside her gravesite. If it wasn't for Spindle and her insistence that he spend the afternoon in her bed, he would have gone. Considering there was a blizzard that night, demonstrating his bleak yet tormenting emotions of that day, it was a good idea that he remained in doors rather than try to brave the storm.

He didn't tell Spindle why exactly he was upset. He had tried to tell the redhead about his sister only once before since that first night in Spindle's room and she had grown upset listening to him describe how sweet and beautiful and innocent she had been. He didn't understand why she seemed jealous; Maria was his sister, after all. But Spindle, despite the front she put forth, was a lot more intuitive, especially when it came to Rip's emotions – even if he couldn't admit the lust he felt for his sister, Spindle knew.

For his birthday, Spindle offered him two gifts. Despite the fact that he spent more time in her bed than in his own – the pair had bribed Gimmick by then to keep her mouth shut about their comings and goings – Spindle gave him the gift of herself. She was the more experienced of the two and normally was in control in the bedroom; for his birthday, she let him do what he wanted. After that night, she was never in control again.

The second of the two gifts was a trip to the barber. When he lived with his family, Rip's hair – as well as his three brothers – was cut by their mother every month to ward of any sort of lice they could pick up from other children. Ever since he left Little Italy in favor of Harlem, his hair had grown out of control and he was almost certain he had contracted nits.

Even though Spindle liked the front lock of hair that covered his icy eyes, she decided it was high time for him to cut his hair. So, for the first time in nearly ten months, his hair was cut and he looked like the boy he was when Maria was murdered. And he felt a little bit better about himself for it.

--

Slowly, but surely, Spindle was working her way under his skin. He would never say that he loved her but there was tie there, a tie between them, that he could not deny. If he had to explain it – and, he didn't, since both of them were particular in making sure that no one knew about their relationship but Gimmick – he would say that they were just the perfect fit. Spindle was almost as emotionless as he was, at times, and held no love for anyone but herself. And maybe Rip – in the least, she was very possessive of him. The one rule she had for him, in exchange for his free trips into her bed, was that she was the only girl for him.

He thought she was referring to his only whore. She was not. Either way, he agreed.

The first time, apart from the instance when they first met and he saw sadness within her green eyes, that he saw that she was not exactly whole was when Rip bumped into Aisling, one day after leaving Spindle's room. He had neglected to tell Spindle about the time he slept with Aisling – it slipped his mind, really, and, later on, he didn't see how it was her business at all – so when Spindle, who had followed Rip out of the room to wash up, saw the familiarity in which Aisling greeted Rip, she changed.

Her lips, normally quirked coyly, had turned downward as she stomped over to her boy and the whore who was petting his hand. "What's going on?" she said, but in a falsely high voice. Rip knew she was upset just by the way she spoke; Aisling didn't have a clue.

She, unaware of the relationship between Rip and Spindle, put her hand against his chest. Smiling at Spindle, she said, "Have you met Rip yet, Caity? I had him in my room when his first visit to the Brothel and I was just asking him when I'd see him again. I'm the best here, you know." Then she patted his chest once and laughed, to show that she was only joking around.

Spindle didn't seem to think so.

Rip watched as Spindle, with more force than he would have ever given her credit for, slapped Aisling hard across the face. He didn't know what exactly happened after that. Aisling, covering her face, had swung back at Spindle but, before Spindle could retaliate to Aisling's strike, Cecilia came storming down from her room upstairs. Rip, once he saw Cecilia coming to break up the fight, fled from the Brothel. He was afraid she might demand payment for all the times he had been in Spindle's room.

The next time he saw Spindle, shortly before St. Valentine's Day, she laughed over the matter and explained that it was just a misunderstanding between her and Aisling. Everything was back to normal, she had said, before going ahead on to celebrate the holiday.

Rip nodded his understanding. It was all he could do before he lost himself in her touch.

And then, one day in the beginning of March in 1894, she was gone.

--

He found out in a difficult way, actually. It was still dark that morning, the sun had not risen yet, and Rip still had an hour or so to rest before going down to the Distribution Center. A loud thundering woke him up – as well as most of the boys who retaliated by cursing under their breath and trying to cover their ears with their pillows – but it wasn't until a pair of rough hands shook him that he was truly up. He opened his eyes and, by using the dawn glow, he saw that Mack was leaning over him. "Rip? C'mon, kid. Get up." And, before he turned and began to thunder back down the steps, he pushed something into Rip's hand.

Not wanting to upset any of the other boys, Rip, wearing only his union suit, climbed out of his bunk and followed Mack downstairs into the lobby, the flat, square item clutched in his hand. Mr. Smith hadn't arrived yet to do his morning duty, so it was just the pair of them together: Rip, scratching his head and yawning; Mack, standing there with blood on his hands.

_Blood on his hands?_

Rip was awake at once after seeing the crimson – well, now brown – liquid that stained his hands. "What the hell happened?"

"You should ask your girl," Mack replied, seriously for once. There was no trace of a smile on his face; his eyes were dull. If Rip didn't know that the boy standing before him _was_ Mack, he would have thought that he was an impostor.

"My girl?"

"Yeah, your tramp. She decided to go after one of the girls. Unfortunately for me, I was fucking the girl at that exact time and got her blood all over me. I'm just glad that she's going to be alright. Spindle don't got no aim, I tell you." He was frowning, just then, as he took a seat at the bottom of the steps. He looked like he didn't have the strength to stand up any more. _He hasn't gotten any sleep yet tonight._

Without even stopping to wonder how Mack found out about him and Spindle, Rip shook his head. He had gotten to know Spindle quite closely in the last four months. While she seemed to be his almost counterpart, though female, he never got the sense that something was _really _wrong with her. Or, at least, any worse than he was. He was a murderer – she couldn't have done anything worse than that, could she? "I can't believe it. Spindle hurt one of _Cecilia's _girls?" Maybe he understood what Mack was saying. It wasn't like the boy was being forthcoming with information.

He felt Mack's eyes on him at that moment followed by a soft pat on his shoulder. "Listen, Rip. I warned you about her but I didn't really warn you, did I?" He paused and shook his own head. "I'm telling you, that is one whore you don't want to mess with. She may be a good lay but she'll take your balls before she's done with you. Though, by the look on your face, she's already got them in her damn hand."

Rip shrugged off Mack's hand. In a way, he didn't want to believe that Spindle was capable of doing that. Never mind that she all but admitted to him that she left her orphanage after attacking another girl. _She turned on one of her own_? _Why? _She had never showed any odd or violent tendencies when he was around. _Except for that one time with Aisling… Oh shit._

"Who was it?" He almost didn't want to know, though he was pretty sure he did. Who else would Spindle attack? _Shit._

Mack didn't say anything right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was a lot lower than normal and it almost sent chills up Rip's spine. "It was Aisling," he said, confirming Rip's suspicion. "She just ran in on me and Ais, yelling some crazy shit and then whipped out a knife. She got Aisling right in the arm before she turned and ran. Stupid tramp."

Rip almost couldn't believe it. If it wasn't for the blood that coated Mack's hands, and specked his face, Rip would have thought that it was all a joke. "You've got to be kidding me. That little Spindle? She _stabbed _Aisling? Why?"

Mack stood up from the step he was sitting on, slightly shaking as it was; the sun was slowly creepy upward and Mr. Smith would be entering through the entrance soon. He needed to get upstairs and change in order to alarm the old man. As he got up, using the wooden banister for support, he pointed to the flat thing in Rip's hand – the envelope that he had given to the younger boy. "She left that for you, mate. Cecilia found it on her bed – it was the only thing left in her room. She must have been planning this, crazy kid." He shrugged. "I guess if you want answers, you'd better open that up and see."

Rip's eyes, colder than Mack had ever seen them, went from Mack's face to the stock paper in his hand. Slowly, his lip quirked and a twisted smile crossed his face. And then, before Mack could say anything about it, his left hand took the other side of the envelope and he tore the paper in half. He continued to do so until there were only bits of coarse paper in his open hands. He could make out scrawling on the torn pieces but, due to the small size, could not read any of the writing. _Good_. Then, with a swift breath, he sent the bits wafting to the floor.

He didn't want to know at all.

_Fuck Spindle. _He liked Aisling and she didn't deserve that. No one deserved to be stabbed.

Especially not Maria.


	11. XI POISON PLANT

Author's Note: _Yay, chapter eleven. We're officially in double digits. I guess this is a good chapter to say, again, that the beliefs portrayed in this chapter are not mine but, rather, that of a character from this time period. Also, beware the foreshadowing monster. He came in full force with this chapter. _

_I have a question. I've been working on a rewrite of _Cuts like a Knife_, with the Rip in that story actually relating to the Rip in this story (with Italian and mentions of the brothel and the Harlem House, etc.). Would any of you guys be interested in reading that? Let me know._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.03.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XI

It took awhile for things to get back to normal around the Harlem House. The news that Rip had been screwing that unstable redhead behind the boys' back spread through the House like rapid wildfire; though the boy had been there since mid-August of last year, almost eight months now, most of the other boys still did not care much for him. And those were just the boys that had been around since he arrived at the House; the newer boys had other things on their mind, like selling newspapers and making sure they could afford their lodging fare. What did it matter to them, really, if some strumpet got stabbed all in the name of a nobody newsie?

For the first few weeks following Aisling's accident, none of the boys – including Mack – talked to Rip at all. He sold the most papers that month; he was the first to rise in the morning, bought as many newspapers as he could carry, and spent long hours, hawking the headlines alone. He often returned back to the House shortly before dinner was served and went to bed soon after.

It wasn't until the beginning of April that the cold shoulder the other boys gave him seemed to thaw a bit. Rip was the first in the bunkroom following a simple dinner of potatoes and broth; holding his tarnished cross tight – still hung around his neck though Trace had tried again to snatch it while he slept; he earned a punch in the left cheek for his efforts – he was on his knees, beside the bunk, praying when Mack found him.

Like he had the first time he found the Catholic boy praying, Mack smirked. He was of the mind that boys like them didn't deserve religion, that God had already forsaken them, so why bother? He did think it was kind of neat that, despite all of his hardships – all he really knew about the younger boy was that his beloved little sister had been killed, his mother's brain went funny and his father was a drunk; he didn't even know the half of Rip's problems, actually, and he didn't really care all that much – Rip was still praying every night before he went to bed. It just wasn't for him, though.

He waited just outside the door way, scratching the back of his head idly, as he waited for Rip to perform the Sign of the Cross that indicated that his prayers were complete. After scratching his head, Mack proceeded to lower his hand and scratch his shoulder and then his back. Then he scratched just a bit harder. His back was really itchy, for some reason.

There was a lush park just down the street from the Harlem House, tucked away behind a large building. Mack had taken Minx out there the night before for a quick fling; he was only discovering now that the leafy bush he had rested against when he was finished was not a patch of grass and weeds. He had re-dressed in a bunch of poison ivy. _Oh shit._

There was a rather large rash blossoming across his back – his fingers could feel the slight bumps as they tried in vain to alleviate the itch. He began to scratch more furiously; once the painful sensation was relieved, the itchiness began anew. Before long, Mack had backed up against the door frame and was eagerly rubbing his back against it, using the wooden support to scratch his back.

The obnoxious sound that Mack made – his back smacking against the wood, his squeals of slight pleasure as the itch temporarily subsided – alerted Rip to his presence. He quickly mumbled his standard prayer ending: _Riposi_ _In Pace. Amen. _He made the Sign of the Cross, lifting his right hand so that it was eye level to him before lowering it in a straight downward motion. He then moved his hand so that it was parallel to the left side of his chest before crossing himself. All the while, Mack tried to scratch the itch he couldn't reach.

Rip stood up from his position on the floor, straightening his black slacks as he went. His appetite had left him following Spindle's disappearing act and he had to add another hole in his belt to compensate for the extra weight loss. While he had always been thin, he was quickly looking sickly, he was so emaciated. The woman who was serving dinner that night noticed and had kindly added an extra helping of potatoes to his plate; Rip had given them to little Nickels instead.

He turned to face the Harlem leader; the look on his face asked the question that was on his mind for him: Have you lost your mind? His blue eyes widened in surprise at Mack's antics. The older boy ignored him and continued to scratch his back. Rip just shook his head and sat down on his bunk. Mack had not spoken to him since giving the message about Aisling's attack. Was he here to strike up a friendly conversation now, almost a month later? He would wait until Mack stopped his scratching.

Mack looked at Rip, his hazel eyes almost pleading for pity. He should have known that once you start scratching at a contagious rash, it only gets worst. He would have been better off if he had never started to scratch in the first place. "Fucking…itchy…back," he explained. "I…think I got…a rash."

Rip tried not to look surprised that Mack was talking to him again. Instead, he figured he might as try to be civil back. "Poison plant?" he guessed. When he was younger, him, Gabriel and Maria had gone playing outside one spring afternoon and ended up rolling around in a leafy patch of grass. All three of them had come down with a severe case of what his mother had called '_pianta_ _del veleno_', or poison plant. He remembered that face that Mack was making; Gabriel had made that same exact face as he implored his younger brother to have at his back.

Mack tried to shrug while still reaching behind him with his fingers. "I…think so." He paused. "Goddamn…it."

"Take off your shirt. Strip down to your waist if you got a union suit on."

At that moment, Mack stopped scratching at himself. His hazel eyes widened; he looked taken aback at Rip's command. But the surprise was only momentary and he scoffed. "What are you, Rip, a queer? I thought you liked to screw girls."

Rip couldn't believe that accusation. "I ain't no queer, Mack. I was gonna help you with your rash," he said, almost shaking his head. Queer boys did not last long in the Harlem House; even if he was one – _which I'm not_, he vehemently thought, feeling somewhat dirty at the thought – he would never admit it to Mack or any other of the boys.

Their eyes met in that moment and Rip was almost positive that the older boy looked a bit upset at his statement, the part where he denied being a homosexual. But the look was gone before he could be certain – _and, besides, considering all the talk Mack does about laying with women, there's no way he's a queer _– and the only expression he could gather from Mack was relief. He wanted the itching to be stopped.

So, as Mack hurriedly removed the grey button down shirt he was wearing, and continued to slip the unisuit down so that it was hanging at his waist, Rip walked over to the water pump in the back of the bunkroom. He did not have a wash rag like his mother had had when he was infected by the _pianta_ _del veleno_ but he figured a sock would work just as well. He slipped his right shoe off – the lace was still torn and, because it that, the shoe was not knotted closed – and yanked at his sock. He jammed his foot back into the boot and checked over his shoulder to make sure that is action went unnoticed; he was sure that Mack would probably prefer a clean sock but Rip was down to his last pair and had none clean to offer.

Mack was preoccupied with removing his arm from the stained union suit and did not see as Rip soaked his dark sock under the spout of the water pump. Once it was good and wet, he cradled it and brought it over to the shirtless boy. He walked around Mack so that he was looking at his scrawny back; a rather large red rash, complete with blossoming blisters, was spread across the top of the pale flesh.

Making sure that his hands did not make contact with the contagious bumps – there was no way in Hell that he was going to contract the poison plant's rash again – Rip placed his sock on Mack's back. At once, Mack let out a sigh of relief and Rip had to hide a smirk. When he, Gabriel and Maria were all infected by the _pianta_ _del veleno_, his mother had scrubbed them until the cause of the rash – the poison plant's oil – was gone from their bodies. The relief he had felt at his mother's strong hand and the wet wash rag that she used had felt marvelous to him at the time; no doubt, Mack was feeling the same thing.

After a quick wash of the entire red area, Rip chose the source of the rash – the are where the blisters were the largest – and laid the sock on it. The sock had been soaked when he began to wash Mack's back; after the first few swipes, much of the water had run down and wet the edge of his union suit and the brown slacks underneath.

Once the sock was in position, Rip turned to face Mack. The older boy did not look as distressed as he had upon discovering the extent of his discomfort; instead, he appeared relieved. A small smile came to his face. "Thanks, mate. That felt great."

Rip shrugged off the gratitude and, instead, placed his wet hands on his hips. He wanted to know why, exactly, Mack had come to the bunkroom so early, especially when it was known that Rip always went there following dinner. Considering Mack rarely came back to the House before Smith's enforced curfew – if he even came back at all – it only went to serve that he had a motive behind seeking out Rip. And he doubted that motive had to do with his rash. "What did you want, Mack?"

Mack, he could tell, aimed to shrug his shoulder but stopped almost at once; he did not want to dislodge whatever rag Rip had placed on his back – _it felt too good_. Rather, he assumed a cheeky grin. "Now, why do you say that, Rip?"

"Because you haven't said a word to me following Aisling's accident."

The cheeky grin did not even waver. "Don't you mean Spindle's attack on Aisling?"

Rip lifted his arms from their position on his hips. With his right hand, he tried to reach around Mack and retrieve his sock. If he had known that Mack came only to try and make him feel like shit – _it's_ _working _– he would not have offered his mother's remedy for the poison plant.

Mack saw that he had offended Rip and that, because of his careless words, the younger boy was going to take his rag back. Hurriedly he tried to back away, still hunched slightly over so that the rag would remain in place. When he back up as far as he could go without leaving the bunkroom, he lifted his right hand in an effort to stay Rip. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Honest."

Rip stopped. In the eight months that he had known Mack he was sure that the Harlem House leader had never used the word 'honest' once. "What did you mean, then?"

"Nothing, really. I just came to talk to you."

"About what?" replied Rip, reaching up to scratch his head slightly. The lice had all been exterminated with his last hair cut and he was being extraordinarily careful to not pick up the vermin again; however, watching Mack scratch away at his back before had made him itchy.

Mack groaned under his breath. The cool rag had alleviated much of his feverish itches but now, after watching Rip scratch, he was feeling the minute stings again. This time, though, he refused to scratch at it. "Aisling," he spat out finally. When Rip stopped his scratching – and Mack breathed out a silent sigh of relief – and raised his eyebrow, he continued. "Aisling, she's back at work. And she had a message for you."

Rip's stomach dropped. He was wondering if, like all the other boys, Aisling had blamed him for what happened to her. All he knew about the exchange that night came from Mack before he had stopped talking to him. According to him, he and Aisling had been in the middle of something when Spindle entered the room and, waving a blade wildly, sliced the fatty flesh on the back of Aisling's arm. The sight of the blood, gushing below onto Mack, seemed to snap her out of whatever trance that had induced her to strike out at her comrade. Without another word, Spindle was gone, along with everything she had owned. No one had heard from the redhead since and the blame of her actions had fallen onto Rip; turned out that Gimmick, upon Spindle's disappearance, had told Cecilia about Spindle and Rip's hidden relationship. Everyone, it seemed, believed that Rip had gotten his girl to attack poor Aisling for some reason. He was afraid to hear what it was she had to say to him. "Did she?"

Mack nodded. "Me and her sat down to talk about this morning. She wanted to apologize to me for spilling her blood and not finishing what we started," he said and Rip had to look away disbelievingly. The girl got _stabbed _and all she could think about was that she didn't bring her client – and it's not like Mack is a client, really, since he never pays – to his climax. _Whores…_ "Anyway, she wanted me to tell you, since she didn't think you'd be coming back to the brothel any time soon, that it weren't your fault. And that we shouldn't all blame you for what some girl off her trolley done did." He took another pause before wiggling his back; the itchiness was starting again. "I'd have to say that she was right. It really wasn't your fault – even if you did what I told you not to and fucked that dame."

Figuring that was the closest thing he was going to an apology from Mack, Rip actually spared a smile. He was a loner – had been since his sister died and his family fell apart – but it hurt even him to be spit on by all of his fellow lodgers. He stood up a little straighter. "That's good."

Mack nodded but, for no reason, he just stopped. His eyes narrowed at Rip and the younger boy grew nervous under his intense stare. "What?" he finally asked when he couldn't take the silence any longer. Mack was beginning to creep him out.

Mack tilted his head slightly to the left, his hazel focused on some point of Rip. He didn't say anything but took a few steps forward. When he was just in front of Rip, he reached out his hand and lifted the tarnished silver cross around his neck, resting it upon his pointer finger. "You own this cross, mate?"

Rip was uncomfortable at the proximity but even more wary of the question. The cross – the same cross that Maria had been wearing when she had been murdered; the cross that Rip had taken to wearing underneath his shirt – was normally hidden; he only took it out when he was praying. Since Mack had come into to speak to him while he was praying, he had neglected to hide it away when he was done. Considering the fact that Trace had tried to steal it from his neck twice now, he had been very careful not to let anyone else know he had it. "Yeah. What of it?" he asked testily.

Mack ignored the attitude that had found its way into Rip's voice. "I could almost swear that I've seen this before."

Rip couldn't take it anymore. He jerked the cross out of Mack's hand and quickly slipped it under his union suit. He did not bother to respond to Mack's statement.

There was a long pause just then. Mack tried to fight it with a smile but, when Rip continued to stare fiercely at him, his smile wavered before fading entirely. "I think I need to wet this rag again," he said, trying to cut the awkward tension that had just filled the bunkroom. His hand was still hovering too close to Rip for his comfort and he, nonchalantly, tried to pull it back. Rip watched as Mack reached behind him slowly and peeled the damp sock from his back. He took a few steps away, toward the water pump, when he finally realized that what he had assumed was a piece of cloth was, in actuality, Rip's sock. "Rip, is this your sock?"

Rip's knuckles became very interesting at that moment.


	12. XII FORBIDDEN TRYST

Author's Note: _Here's chapter twelve. Read it. Enjoy it. Review it._

_And, since I can't reply to ct's anonymous review (_at what point does this have anything to do with newsies!_) through the review reply, I shall do so here – Anyone reading the first chapter was warned that it was an OC piece. However, this is a companion fic to _Cuts Like a Knife_, a newsies fan fiction. Therefore, this – in my opinion – belongs in the newsies section. I write this to expand on that story. Simple as that._

_And, because I meant to add this (for midnight1899 – I figure I'll put this here in case anyone else was confused) a union suit is: _a type of one-piece long underwear long favored by men in North America until recent times. Traditionally made of red flannel with long arms and long legs, it also traditionally buttoned up the front and had a button-up rear "access hatch" (colloquially known as a fireman's flap) for sanitary needs. _(from wikipedia) Basically, it's underwear :)_

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.10.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XII

Following Mack's poison ivy incident, things went back to normal around the Harlem House. The other boys did not go out of their way to make friends with Rip but they no longer ignored him as they had before. All in all, as April ended and May of 1894 began, things had returned to the way they were before Caitlin 'Spindle' Scott fled from Harlem.

Which is why, when the red-head showed up one day, at the end of May, Rip went to great lengths to hide her return. When Mack asked just why, exactly, he returned to the House that afternoon, dirty and disheveled, he lied. He hadn't just had a tryst with the one girl that Mack despised, of course not. One of the Negro boys had jumped him again, of course. Mack, who hated Negros as much as he hated Spindle, accepted the story without a word.

Like she had in the beginning of their reckless relationship, Spindle saw him first and called out for him. "Rip." Her voice, lacking in its usual sweetness, was gruff and demanding. Despite that, he recognized her at once and stopped in his tracks. Something deep inside of him warned him not to turn around. Nevertheless, he turned.

If he did not know it was her, he might have had a hard time placing the girl. Her hair, the same vivid orange-y shade, was longer and clipped back. Her facial features were sharper than before; she had lost a bit of weight since she had left Harlem.

It was her clothing, however, that marked the most distract change in her appearance. Just like the other girls he had acquainted himself with since arriving in Harlem – all of them workers in Cecilia Rayner's brothel – Spindle normally wore a pressed blouse with a matching skirt. It seemed to be the unofficial uniform for the girls; dainty, yet practical and easy to maintain.

But the girl before him, with her hair tied back, appeared to him as a fellow boy. She was wearing a plain faded blue button down shirt, so like his, and a pair of brown slacks – Spindle was dressed in boys' clothing. She seemed much shorter than he remembered, and tinier – he assumed it was do to the weight loss he noticed. Or maybe it was because he no longer wore those fancy heeled shoes.

And, to top it all off, the girl was smiling. The Spindle he remembered hardly ever smiled; when she did, it was a false gesture. The only way to know exactly what she was thing was by looking in her eyes. Her eyes, those large emerald orbs, were smiling. She was genuinely happy to see him again. Could he say the same?

Rip tucked the three papers he had left of the morning edition – it was approaching nine in the morning, and, though he had been selling for nigh on two hours, he still had three of his fifteen papers left; in Harlem, he sold more of the evening edition – under his arm before taking one step closer to the girl. She was waiting for him at the end of the street. How she saw him and knew it was him was beyond even his reasoning; he learned, shortly after meeting the girl, not to question her.

In that way that she had – she hadn't lost her allure in the two months she's been gone – she was beside him before he even knew it. He had only taken one step; she took the rest.

"Rip," she said again. "How have you been?"

Maybe it was her proximity, or the way that she spoke to him as if _nothing _had happened, but the trance was broken at once. "What do you want, Spindle?" he replied, on his guard now. He didn't see any sign of a blade but he wouldn't past the girl at this point. What if she had returned to do him in like she failed to do to Aisling?

She laughed and the sound seemed almost foreign to him. He didn't like it. "I came back to see you, silly," she said as she tentatively reached her hand out to him. It fell upon his left shoulder but he couldn't find the strength to shake it off; he noticed, however, that her hand was almost as ink-stained as his was. Was it possible – could it be? – that Spindle had taken to selling newspapers in her absence? He did not know how she could do that; he hadn't heard a word about her since she left – wouldn't someone have seen her down at the Distribution Center?

Her green eyes followed his gaze, where he was staring at her hand. She left it there while smiling knowingly at him. "Did you miss me, Rip?"

_Yes. No. Maybe? _All different sorts of answers spun around his head but which was the truth? He settled on masking all emotions. His lips were settled in a straight line, which made his face appear longer; his eyes were squinted in her direction. He disregarded her hand. He said nothing. And that silence said everything.

Spindle, one could tell, did not expect him to answer her question with words. She pursed her lips for a moment before pulling her hand back. Despite the tension that followed his silent reply, she drew her hand back seductively and ran her fingers through the lengths of her red ponytail before letting it fall to her side.

He couldn't take the quiet any longer. "What are you doing here, Spindle?"

"What? Aren't you glad to see me?" Her grin widened. The expression made her look like a ferocious beast that had just spotted an appetizing prey. He wasn't too sure he liked that look. It made him _feel _like prey.

With her standing in front of him, as if she had never left, the reasons behind her disappearance were forgotten. He forgot about Aisling's accident, and Mack's disapproval. He forgot about the weeks that followed, where he was ostracized far more than he had been. He forgot his own disgust that she had been capable of stabbing another person.

The only thing he knew just then was that Spindle had returned. That, and it had been over two months since he was with a woman.

Just that mere thought was enough to get him aroused; while he may not have been prepared to show his surprise at her arrival – stubborn pride getting in the way; _how could she have just left me like that? _– his penis was not so obliging. It had a mind of its own.

Spindle noticed his discomfort and said nothing; her eyes, trained onto his crotch, told him that she knew. There was another moment of silence before Rip decided to make a comment. "Nice look you got going on, Spindle."

She tore her eyes away from him and looked over her shirt and slacks. When she was done, she met his curious gaze. "You like?" When he didn't reply, she continued. "Well, I figure, now that I sell papers," – _I knew it _– "I might as well look the part. After all, the girls I met out in Rockaway all dress like boys. They say it is cheaper or some shit like that."

Rip narrowed his eyes as he picked up on one word: _Rockaway_. "You ain't selling in Harlem, are you?"

She laughed and he felt like a fool for mentioning it. "Are you nuts? I don't do Harlem no more. I'm in Queens, now. Ain't as much money there but at least I ain't spreading my legs for every Tom, Dick & Harry, eh, Rip?"

_That's Spindle for you. Referring to her former profession as 'spreading her legs'._ He couldn't help but shake his head. "You went to Queens? Isn't that far?" He had only heard of the borough in passing; if it didn't have anything to do with Harlem or Little Italy, he didn't quite care.

"Damn right, it's far. I needed to start over, you know? Can't go back to Manhattan, couldn't stick around in Harlem. So I went to Queens."

She said the words so nonchalantly, without a hint of remorse for why she had to leave behind both cities, that Rip couldn't help but agree with her. It almost seemed like the girl was making perfect sense.

And, besides, the throbbing coming from below was controlling his brain just then. He would have agreed to anything that came spouting out of Spindle's mouth. He got enough information out of her to understand what she had done following her escape. Now he was just eager to get down to business.

There was only one thing that the two of them did together. Talking extensively was not it.

"Come with me, Rip," she said finally, taking pity on him; she knew what he was expecting and she was only to eager to supply it. She looked up and met his eye. There was a lust hidden within their depths that he knew must mirror that in his own. Slowly, he nodded. Deep down, he knew he shouldn't go with her. Knew that it would only make things much more difficult in the future. But he couldn't control himself any further. He had to follow her.

She no longer had a comfortable bed within Cecilia Rayner's brothel to return to but that did not daunt her. Rip's hand in hers – he did not have the energy to deny her any longer, nor did he want to – she led him far away from that spot, far away from any prying eyes that could follow the forbidden pair.

The last three papers that he had neglected to sell that morning served as a blanket, covering the dirt in a mockery of the sheets they had used up until that point.

--

Rip walked back to the Harlem House alone that afternoon, covering his head, one cheek caked with dirt, within his hand. He had spent much of the day sitting beside Spindle, huddled against the coarse brick wall in an alley that hid them away. It was quite the experience, being with the girl again. He had not realized how much he had missed her since she'd been gone. He wasn't too sure if he missed her now.

Spindle had asked him to return with her. As she sat beside him, covering herself with the crumpled remnants of the May 26th _New York Sun_, her hair – free of its band – sweat-plastered to her hair, she asked him.

"It's a nice place, Rip. You'd like it," she said. She was still somewhat out of breath; they had, after all, been hidden in the back of that alleyway, lying together, for a few hours. Understandably, the insatiable redhead was finally growing tired.

Rip nodded absently. He leaned into her just then, trying not to mash his bare back against the harsh wall. He had grown tired long before she had but knew better than to turn her away. When would he get a free lay again?

She was sitting on his left; she reached over her unbuttoned shirt, flesh hidden by the paper, and began to trace a lazy line along Rip's bare chest. He tensed – she assumed he was just feeling ticklish – but she continued.

The touch of her fingers awoke deeply buried memories within him. It was not that long ago – not even a full year had past – that the prostitute, that _Daisy_, had been murdered. Murdered at his own hands. And Spindle's touch, so like the fatal ministrations Daisy had performed just prior to her own demise, reminded him of the emotions, so suppressed since he – like a coward, _a fucking coward_ – ran away, that erupted in him. The very same emotions that caused him to snap and take a life.

Rip pulled away from her. It was almost as if he could feel the sticky heat of Daisy's blood dripping across him, staining his hands, staining his chest, staining his penis. The façade he had worked so hard to conceal – and, likewise, seemed to forget; the mask strong enough to protect him, was enough to bring him ignorant bliss – was crumbling about him.

He was on his knees just then and then, as soon as there was a good three feet between the pair, he was back on his haunches, wearing only his own black slacks. Spindle was watching him, confusion written all over her face. Rip was breathing heavy, his bare chest visibly moving in and out with the labor of his breath.

"Rip?"

Her voice, the new voice she had adopted to suit her new profession, was so unlike that of the dead whore that it brought a bit of sense to the boy. He turned his icy cool eyes on Spindle and seemed to remember who she was – who he was – and what was happening; it was enough to bring him down.

Rip shook his head and refused to get any closer to the girl. He needed to get away from her and not just for his sake; he needed to protect her from himself. _Just in case_.

Spindle didn't see it that way. As he scrambled forward just to grab his shirt before moving away from her, she glared at him with wide green eyes. All she had one was invite him to come with her – so they could be together again – and he was reacting like a crazed animal. She stood up, buttoning her shirt once she was on her feet, as she stared down at him. "What's your problem? If you didn't want to leave with me, you could have just said so, Rip."

He was still resting on his rear, his head in his hands. A massive throbbing was pounding right behind his eyes; he couldn't even lift his head to apologize to her – even if he wanted to. All he could manage to do in his present state was lift his hand and motion for her to move away.

She didn't need another word from him. In her own anger, angry at the boy for treating her in such a manner, she spat at the dirt. "Fuck you, Rip. I don't need you." She gave him a moment to reply; she took the opportunity to button her slacks, making sure she was fully dressed now. But he didn't say a word.

Normally so in tune to his emotions – the conflicting feelings and eerie emptiness that was battling to overcome his upset – Spindle was at a loss for words. He had pulled on his shirt, but it was hanging loosely from his thin frame. He had not lifted his head; it was still resting against the cool dirt.

She repeated her words. "I don't need you." Her voice was at odds with her expression, however; while she sounded like she meant exactly what she said, her eyes told another story. The girl wanted nothing more than Rip to get up off of the ground and hold her tight. She didn't even know what set him off.

Rip was waiting for her to go. He could see her shoes – she had traded in her heeled shoes for a set of dark boots – as she waited in the alleyway. He had to give her credit; she didn't want to leave him. It seemed like forever before she left with a whispered: _I don't need _you.

And, as Spindle, straightening her boys' pants against her trim waist as she went, walked out of that alley and started her way back to wherever it was she was hiding – _Rockaway?_ – Rip made himself a promise: _I ain't never following that girl to Queens. Ever. I just can't._

--

It was not until much later, not until his prayers had already been said – with an extra one for the dead prostitute – and he was lying, wide awake, in his bunk, that he thought about her words: _I don't need you_.

If she did not need him, why had she come all the way back from Rockaway, Queens just to convince him to return with her? They way she had said the words reminded him of a fight he had with Maria, shortly before she died. Rip had found that one of the nearby boys had made fun Maria for being a tease. When he found out which boy it was – a kid named Carlo – he, with Tonio's help, gave the kid a black eye.

Unfortunately, the boys began to bother Maria all the more; rather than leave her be, they asked why she needed her brothers to defend her. She went from being a tease to being a useless girl. And Maria, hurt that her brothers thought her incapable of handling the neighborhood boys, told them both: I don't need you.

Oddly enough, her words – spiteful words from a twelve year old – hurt much more than those of a fifteen year old whore with a knife. Maybe it was because he knew Spindle could handle herself – she didn't really need him, did she? – and Maria hadn't been able to take care of herself. She had been murdered, after all.

Or maybe it was because he loved Maria. He wasn't sure that the feelings he had for Spindle were anything akin to love; at the most, it was lust.

He couldn't love Spindle, he knew. She was too dirty, had been used too many times. She was not sweet and innocent. She was a tramp.

And that's when he knew what he wanted. He wanted a girl, a girl who was a mix of both his beloved and his companion. Someone who was sweet, innocent, kind and loving – yet would be willing to give herself over to him when he felt the need to partake in the pleasure of the flesh.

He wanted to know the touch of a virgin. A virgin's touch that would cure his guilt and wipe clean the blood from his hands.

_What I want is a virgin who is a whore._


	13. XIII A CHANGE IN SEASON

Author's Note: _Here's chapter number thirteen. Just like I said in _Diabo_, (and, I'll tell ya – I definitely did not think I would hit that many chapters for either of these two stories, so Woot!), it's the lucky chapter. In the case of _AVT_, this is more like a catch-up chapter. I find it a bit hard to keep all these dates straight – and I'm the one who is writing this! So, I tried to show where some of the months went. Considering this story is aiming to meet up with the dates in _Cuts like a Knife_, I'm following a strict timeline. Hope you guys are following this alright :) _

_And, I wanted to add that I finally began to post the re-write of _Cuts Like a Knife_; it is based on much of this story and, while still having the same plot, I find it to be an easier read. It is called _Obsession: Cuts like a Knife_ in case you would like to read it. Points to those who can pick out the _AVT _references in it._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.17.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XIII

May turned to June almost as quickly as June turned to July. Just as winter was harsh and cruel, summer, with its heat and humidity, started before any of the boys knew it. To Rip, especially, it seemed that spring was there for a mere week before the snow melted and the sun began to shine.

When he looked back on those few months, he remembered nothing more than sweating and struggling to breathe. But that could also be because, starting with March, he began to relive the events from the previous year. He was not capable of living with the memories yet.

In March, it marked the one year anniversary of Maria's death. The exact date fell just about two weeks after Spindle's disappearance. Still reeling from the discovery that the red-headed prostitute was not who he thought she was, Rip spent the year anniversary holed up in his bunk, hidden from view by a flimsy sheet. When Mack asked him what was wrong, he blamed influenza. He remained inside the Harlem House, depressed and alone just shy of a week. He used up most of his savings, paying for his lodging fare without selling a single newspaper.

During that spell, he wanted nothing more than to head back over to Little Italy and visit his sister's grave. This time, however, when he had the urge to leave Harlem, Spindle was not there to keep him occupied until his fancy faded. The only thing that kept him from leaving the House was an innate fear that he might meet up with one of his family members. How would he explain his disappearance of almost nine months? What would he do if they did not even notice him? He could not go. So he remained in his bunk.

April was a better month than March by not by much. Most of the month went by as a blur for the boy; many of the other newsies that lived in the Harlem House – including Mack, who had not yet forgiven him for sleeping with Spindle against his wishes – were purposely ignoring him. He emerged from his week of depression (the severe case of 'the flu' that he just could not shake) with a work ethic to be rivaled. It was in April of 1894 that he replenished the savings he squandered in March.

It was also in April that Aisling returned to work and Mack (through his poison plant relief) forgave Rip.

Then May came rolling in. The first part of the month was reminiscent of Rip's first few months in Harlem; only Mack would talk to him. And that was just the way he liked it. Friends and companions were a luxury he could not afford. A boy who sold on his own made more profits than a pair; he did not have to split his takings with anyone.

May was also the month when Spindle made her reappearance. He never told Mack – or any of the others, for that matter – that she was back in town; he was, to be honest, a bit nervous that one of Cecilia Rayner's girls – or even Mack, himself – would want to get revenge for Aisling's attack. He also hoped that she left as quickly as she showed up.

As much as he wanted Spindle to just leave him be, her reentry in his life caused him nothing but confusion. It was at that point that he started to compare Spindle with his late little sister – and he made the profound decision that what he wanted, more than anything, was this: _a virgin's touch_.

He spent the next three days in bed. He told Mack that his influenza returned. Mack believed him and let him be.

--

It was hard to sell newspapers in Harlem during the summer, as Rip found out. Considering he arrived last year in August, he missed the summer weather of 1893. Or, as Mack jokingly said, 'he didn't miss much.'

Rip spent the most part of those summer months selling his newspapers and getting haircuts; most of the money he made actually went straight to the barber. He never missed his mother and her insistence that he get his hair trimmed monthly more.

Memories of his mother, and worries about whether or not her health had returned to normal in the year he had been away from her, caused him another two days in his bunk.

That would be the last time he spent any time, depressed, in his bunk. In truth, it was the last time he would be depressed in the Harlem House at all.

On that third day, at the end of July, Rip woke up much earlier than the rest of the other boys. It was still dark out and, at first, he was not sure what had caused him to wake up so early. He closed his eyes and, rolling onto his side so that he was facing the door and not Trace's snoring face, he tried to fall back asleep. He could not.

That's when he tried to turn his thoughts back to his mother. Carolina Divenize had been on his mind constantly, ever since the barber asked him how he could have afforded his haircuts; it seemed that he was always visiting the elderly man's shop.

However, this time, he felt nothing. He was confused; he had not felt so emotionless since the day that Daisy was murdered. Why, now, was he so empty?

He tried to think of his father, then his three brothers. Again, he felt nothing. Sometime, overnight, he had lost his emotions again. He was not surprised, just worried. _Why? How? What now?_

Rip was not sure if he should be happy or fearful. On the one hand, if he was no longer burdened by depressed thoughts that kept him hidden under a sheet, he would feel like more of a man. On the other hand, though, it was such a state that – after his emotions were bottled for so long – when his anger finally was released, he was not in control. Daisy's death was unfortunate proof of that.

Slowly, and almost warily, he thought of his sister. But, as he thought of her fair, porcelain skin, her long dark curls and wide blue eyes, there was a reaction – just not the one he expected. Rather than feel remorse and pain at the memory of his dead sister, he felt only lust. The more his thoughts remained on her – for, now, he could not even think of anything else – the more emotions (all of them perverse) that stirred within him.

That's when he realized that it was not only his emotions that had stirred. He had effectively, by dwelling on Maria's outer beauty, given himself an erection. But he would not allow his hands to touch it. As punishment for his incestuous behavior, he rolled over and put pressure on his front; he did not even flinch at the pain. He kept his hands flat on his back and refused to move them. And that's how he spent the rest of the night.

He found he could no longer sleep that night. He was afraid of what might happen if he did.

--

August brought a far different Rip than the one who arrived the year before. It had been one whole year since Daisy's accidental death; though he never mentioned it, _ever_, he referred to her murder as an accidental death. As the months rolled by, he thought of himself less and less as a murderer. He was afraid that if he fixated on his one moment of weakness, especially now that his emotional state was similar to the one of last August, that he would repeat his action. His hands were already too bloodstained. He could not allow himself to snap again.

As the summer season waned and the heat finally relented, Rip was being very careful with his actions. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. He knew, as it was, that he was acting apart from the other boys. While they were concerned with keeping fed and finding girls, Rip was almost a robotic newspaper seller. He awoke early, bought his newspapers and remained outside, selling, until the sun set for the evening. The only thing that was the same was his nightly prayers.

But, now, he was praying for himself as much as for the others.

August, he found, was not only his anniversary for his arrival at the Harlem House. The first week of the month brought something else: Mack's nineteenth birthday. Rip had left his home in Little Italy and made it to Harlem just after Mack's eighteenth year celebration. He never really thought about the ages of the other boys before; when he found out that Mack would be nineteen, he vowed to go out and act like one of the other boys.

Mack was, by far, the oldest boy still living in the Harlem House. He had been one of the first boys to find lodging there when the Children's Aid Society opened the House; while the other boys grew up, moved on and moved out, Mack Turner always remained. He had it too good there, he said. Why would he leave?

Maybe it was because he was perceived as the leader of the boys in the House, or maybe – despite his perverted personality – he was an alright guy, but Mack was also the most well-liked (and respected, too) of them all. When the other boys found out that his birthday was August 1st, they all began to pull their money together. Even Rip donated a portion of his earnings – and it was he who gave the most: eighty-three cents.

The party was to be held in the Harlem House after Mister Dodges had left for the night. Nickels and Bean were charged with keeping Mack occupied until then. That was not that difficult – they told him that Cecilia was waiting for him. Trace had already tipped Cecilia off that it was Mack's birthday; she was all too happy to lay with him until night fell, curfew passed and Mister Dodges returned home.

As soon as the supervisor made sure that all the boys were in bed, he nodded and left the bunkroom. They all waited, eagerly, for the sound of a closing door, followed by a lock. As soon as they knew that he was gone, they sent Runner out to get Mack.

Near three-quarters of an hour later, Runner returned with Mack. Surprisingly, they were alone; none of Cecilia's whores had accompanied the boys back. _Just as well_, Rip thought. And then, once they all yelled 'Surprise' – along with a variety of lewd comments, having to do with Mack's disheveled state and rather wide rin – he focused solely on having a good time. Just like he had promised to himself, Rip tried to act like the others and enjoy himself.

It's not so easy to have fun. That is why, when the liquor bottles emerged, he was eager to take a sip. He was willing to sacrifice anything, including his sobriety, in order to enjoy himself. He _owed_ it to himself.

It was during the celebration that Rip discovered he had a taste for a cheap yet potent drink, a spirit known as Old Tom Gin. The drink itself was bitter – far worse to the senses than the wine or sarsaparilla ever was – but the effect it had on him was great. He found himself, the night following Mack's birthday celebration, topless, his union suit peeled down to his waist, sleeping on the steps that separated the lobby and the bunkroom. Luckily it was Mack who found him; the older boy, laughing as he did so, was able to get Rip up into his bunk before Mister Dodges arrived at the House.

That day he remained in his bunk. It was not depression that kept him grounded – it was veisalgia. The only thing worse than the headache he had was his desire to drink. The dryness in his mouth was so bad that he kept crawling to the water pump and sticking his face in the spray in order to quench his thirst.

The after effects, however, were not so bad that they kept him from consuming the drink when he could. It was well known that alcohol was not allowed in any of the Children's Aid Society's Homes; it was as equally known that most of the old boys did it – they just knew how to hide it. Rip kept his bottle tucked in the underside of his bunk, resting on the wooden frame.

Much of the rest of August of 1894 passed by Rip Divenize as quickly as the other summer months, and it was seen, almost entirely, through a drunken fog. He quickly learned his limits; he knew how much Gin he could ingest in order to evade the undesirable aftereffects. He was a good drunk. He did not slur like his father did, nor did he grow lour or violent. In fact, it was almost a game of the other boys to tell when Rip had had a drink. It was almost impossible to tell.

If there was one thing that could be said about him, it was that one did not know anything about Rip unless he wanted you to know.


	14. XIV SOMETHING'S WRONG

Author's Note: _Well, I figure, a nice week's break will return my love for this story and, voila, it has. I'm not entirely sure that this is _exactly _where I wanted to go with this but as the two portions of the chapter are parts that had to come eventually, I figure it works out. And, to those who are reading _Obsession: Cuts like a Knife _(the rewrite of _Cuts Like a Knife _which ties in closely with this story), points if you see parallels with this chapter and some chapters from that story._

_A little bit of disturbing stuff is in the second half of this chapter. It's not overly bad but, in case someone is offended, you've been warned. Trust me, though – it's not near as bad as earlier stuff had been. Woot._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

08.30.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XIV

It was not until mid-September that Rip saw Spindle again. Which, of course, given how much he changed in the short time (four months) since he saw her last, was not a good thing.

The visit was no where as long as the previous one, in May, nor was it as pleasing. Spindle, it seemed, came with only one – no, more like two – purpose in mind: she desired to check up on Rip while, at the same time, trying to convince him to return to Far Rockaway, Queens with her.

Just like the other time that he ran into her – actually, just like _every _time that Rip had encountered Spindle – she saw him first.

He had been sitting in a park, a few blocks away from the Harlem House. It was early afternoon and the sun was still shining; despite the early autumn chill, it was still warm and he was eager to enjoy the last of the beautiful weather. He was sprawled out on a rather large pile of leaves – the leaves had already begun to fall and, after selling the afternoon edition of the paper, he had wanted nothing more than to gather a great pile of crinkly leaves and lay among them. So he did.

Rip had rolled up the sleeves of his faded blue shirt before scooping up armfuls of the various red, orange and yellow leaves. It had not rained in a few days and the leaves were dry; many of them were brittle and fell apart in his hands. He liked the feeling of breaking apart leaves within his fists. It made him feel strong and powerful but in a more childish way. He did not need to strangle a person to feel superior, he found. A handful of leaves sufficed.

He playfully jumped into his pile, for once acting like the child that – given different circumstances – he could have been. Could he have been born in a different time or to a different life, he might not have had to grow up at the age of fourteen. As it was, he was only three months away from his sixteenth birthday and Rip Divenize felt that he was at least three times that age. Outwardly, with his smooth face – only a hint of facial hair had begun to grow – and wide eyes, he appeared as a child. Inwardly, Rip was as bitter and haunted as a fully grown man – a fully grown man who had suffered.

But for that one day – that _one _day – he let down his guard and relaxed. He had not done so since Maria's death almost a year and a half ago and, even then, he had thought himself to be grown. He had been wrong.

So it was in a large pile of leaves, his hands folded behind his head as he gazed up at the blue sky, that Spindle chanced upon him.

It is hard to say which of the two was more surprised to see the other. He never knew how she knew where to find him but, just as she had done before, she was there. He had opened one of his blue eyes lazily, intending to tell, by the position of the sun, just how late it was, when he saw her. She was standing there, a few feet away, looking down on him. Her hands were on her hips, a smirk was playing out on her face. "Rip."

"Spindle." He nodded before closing his eye again. After all, it had been another four months since she had left him again. That time, he thought, had been the last. He was surprised but that was it.

If his eyes would have been open to see it, a flash of hurt crossed her face. But she was almost as skilled as he was when it came to hiding emotions. When he chanced to open his eyes again, the smirk was back without even a hint of her face's earlier betrayal. "How are you?"

He could not believe her tone of voice. She sounded cool, calm, collected – and very much like she belonged in Harlem. Maybe she was returning, then? _Could that be why she's here? _He was slightly more interested then; he pulled himself up before resting back on his forearms. "Alright. You?"

She looked a bit better; summer must have been better for her. She was still thin but had gained some of the weight back – at the very least, she did not look like a walking skeleton. She had exchanged her blue shirt – the shirt she was wearing last time – for a yellow one of the same make; she was still wearing brown slacks. Her green eyes were shining brightly, her red hair had grown even longer – it was now to the mid of her back.

"I'm doing alright," she answered finally, as if she wanted to say something and did not know how to phrase it. It seemed very unlike her. Spindle was a very impulsive person and usually said (or did) what was on her mind without another thought for the consequence. It seemed, to him, that this girl standing before him was almost _hawing_.

It was a quiet and Rip took the opportunity to perform a bit of a test. In the past few weeks, he had only been able to sustain an erection when his thoughts turn inappropriately towards his sister. He did not go to Cecilia Rayner's brothel to relieve his sexual frustrations – and he would not allow his own tainted hands to touch himself – because he was afraid that he would be unable to perform. Could he do so, as he had done countless times before, with Spindle?

Nothing seemed to work right away. But that might not have been because he was no longer attracted to her. It might have been because he was taken aback at the red-head's proclamation.

"Rip…I love you."

He almost thought that the words were folly. But one look at her face – _so serious _– told him that she was, in fact, serious.

"Come with me. To Queens. We could rule together, Rip. I…I got that place in my pockets," she added. It sounded almost like she was bribing him.

He did not answer her. He could not. He looked at the girl, all of a sudden standing as if she was bare in front of him, and he felt nothing.

So he said nothing.

The longer she stood there, facing off against him, the darker her features became. He could see that she had gone angry with him – she was clenching her fists at her side – and, as much as she longed to say something to him, she remained silent. She was still hoping their was a slight chance he might reply. Any second now…

But seconds turned to minutes and yet Rip remained, motionless (frozen), on his pile of leaves. And, rather than Rip, Spindle snapped. She grimaced and shoved her hands – still balled up as fists – into the back pockets of her slacks. "You will love me, Rip," she said, almost hissing. "You _belong _to me."

And, before he could reply, or strike her for her insolence, or do _anything_, she was gone – running down the streets as fast as she could.

Only then could he speak. "What the fuck?"

--

The appearance and subsequent departure of Spindle drove Rip to finish the entire bottle of Old Tom Gin that he had stowed away under his bunk. Normally, his tolerance for liquor – as high as it had become since that first sip of wine alongside his brother, Gabriel – enabled him to drink two or three glasses of the spirit without being effected. After drinking half of a bottle, he was more than affected; Rip was ill.

Maybe if he had not been alone in the bunkroom when he reached for the bottle, he might not have swallowed its contents without stopping for a breath. But he was alone and he was upset and he drank it. He did not even bother with re-hiding the empty bottle. Instead, he placed the glass on the floor and rolled it away from his bottom bunk. It was hidden underneath one of the bunks, further away and he did not care if that boy got in trouble instead. All he cared about was forgetting the red-head.

Considering he had not eaten anything prior to consuming the alcohol, the effects were almost instant. He was on his back, moaning, before he knew it. Everything seemed foggy to him and his head was spinning. But, at least, it was better than dealing with reality.

Until Mack arrived. If he had been sober, he might not have appreciated the good fortune (and eventual irony) that Mack Turner was the one who returned to the House first and was, therefore, the one to find him curled up on his bunk. But he was not sober; when Mack, standing beside Rip's bunk, tapping his boot against the wooden floor, arrived, her was just relieved. "Mack…"

The older boy shook his head, sending his shaggy light brown hair about. When he paused and looked down on Rip with a scowl, his hair fell forward into his hazel eyes. He left it there. "Rip, what the hell happened to you, buddy?"

"Gin."

Mack shook his head again. This was worse than the time he found the boy passed – half-naked, to boot – on the stairs. At least, then, he had a hand in the boy's predicament. This time, Rip had chosen to get drunk on his own. _Dumb ass_. "How long?"

Rip knew what Mack meant but he was not sure if he would be able to answer him. For the first time in a _long _time, he was feeling weak. He was shaking slightly and feeling nauseous. _I'm never drinking a drop again_, he vowed. It was one thing to get drunk and forget everything – that was the outcome he had been looking for. But to get violently ill by drinking too much… _Never again._

He groaned and, using the bit of strength he had garnered by remaining curled up for so long, he looked over pitifully at Mack. The boy was still waiting for an answer to his question. "Couple…coupla hours…" he spat out before burying his head into his pillow. The material smelled vaguely of sweat, body odor and Old Tom Gin. Suddenly, he was upright.

Mack was rubbing his forehead when he saw Rip sit up straight in his bunk. His hazel eyes widened slightly as he saw the normally olive-toned boy go almost green. He recognized the expression on Rip's face at once and, before the younger boy could react to his touch, Mack had placed his hands on each of Rip's arms. As quickly as he could – and, considering he was almost four years older and about thirty pounds heavier than Rip, it was pretty quick – he pulled Rip out of his bed, forcing him on his knees.

He was no a moment too soon. As soon as Rip had hit the floor, his mouth (involuntarily, almost) opened and a mess came pouring out. His body was expelling the liquor in the only way it knew; he was vomiting.

Torn between wanting to laugh at Rip and wanting to yell at him for making the bunkroom smell foul, Mack crouched down beside him and began to run his hand across Rip's back in a soothing manner. "'Atta boy, Rip. Just get it all out."

If Rip was in a better state, his first instinct might have been to break Mack's arm – first for dragging him out of his comfortable bunk, then for touching his back. But he felt like he was dying, every heave that followed that initial one verifying his thought, and he was glad to have someone care for him. It felt almost _nice _to have someone watch over him as he got sick.

He remained on the wooden floor, beside his bed, for a further quarter hour before the nausea subsided and he felt strong enough to get up. Mack, at some point in between his third and fourth heave, had left his side; he soon returned, carrying a spare sheet. As soon as Rip stumbled his way to his feet, Mack covered the mess up with the sheet before helping Rip over to the water pump.

He felt better but still did not have the strength to tell Mack to leave him be. So, as Mack helped to lower his head into the stream of the water pump, he let him. Rip used the water to rinse out his mouth and wipe away the cold sweat that slicked his forehead and shoulders.

By the time he was done with the water pump, he was feeling almost like himself. He refused Mack's help as he all but crawled back to his bunk. The nausea may have gone but his head was now pounding. He wanted nothing more than to climb into his bed and go to sleep.

Mack crossed his arms over the beige shirt, partly soaked from helping Rip with washing up, and watched as Rip – _without a damn word, mind you_ – climbed back into bed, purposely ignoring the sheet-covered mess to the left of his bunk. He stomped over to the bunk, making extra loud noise with his boots to aggravate the headache that the younger surely must have. "You owe me, Rip."

Rip had returned his face to his pillow; the smell of it no longer bothered his stomach. "What do you want from me, Mack?" he asked, his words muffled from the pillow.

But Mack seemed to understand him perfectly. He was on Rip's right side and the boy's backside was to him. Slowly, he got down to his knees and moved forward so that he could lean his torso into the bunk. He did not say anything right away; instead, he took his hand and slipped it under the back of Rip's blue button down shirt; the hem of the shirt, originally tucked into his black slacks, had fallen loose during his earlier tossing and turning.

Rip, despite his illness, tightened at the contact. Only one person had so much touched that spot – _his spot_ - before and Spindle was back on her way to Far Rockaway. His head was still foggy but, at that moment, he was fighting his way through the strange mist within his brain. _Something's wrong…_

Mack's coarse fingers squeezed Rip's side and he chuckled lightly at the sharp intake of breath he heard come from the boy. "Don't worry, Rip," he said before pausing – or maybe the pause was only introduced by Rip hours, days, months, _years_ later as he relived the incident. And, he may have forgotten whether or not the nineteen-year old boy (_man_) paused but he never forgot what Mack said next. "It's not something that I haven't had before…or won't have again."


	15. XV MY TURN

Author's Note: _Okay, I am warning anyone who reads this that this chapter is very disturbing. In fact, it's almost bordering on NC-17 so, please be careful. And it has a bunch of ethnic slurs as well as anti-homosexual thoughts. Just know that I don't feel this way; this is a historical fiction piece and these _fictional characters _feel this way. _

_Okay, now that that's out of the way, I just want to say that, after this chapter, there are only two left. I figured out how I would finish this, so get excited. And enjoy this chapter (as much as you can, I guess.)_

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

09.06.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XV

Much of that night became tucked away in the dark recesses of his mind, with only flashes of the actual scenario playing out before his eyes. He knew pain – physical pain beyond anything he ever knew before – but not feeling. From that moment on, Rip was the epitome of numbness.

Mack's words, cruelly whispered as a painful taunt, made Rip curious. _It's not something that I haven't had before…or won't have again…_ The second half of his statement was clear; it was a promise – not even a threat – that Mack was making. Over the next few months, Mack came crawling into Rip's bunk more times than he cared to remember.

Rip became very good at forgetting.

No, it was the first portion – _It's not something that I haven't had before _– that worried him. But, as Rip found out soon enough, Mack was rather in a state of euphoria after he was done. If Rip gave into him early on, and struggled less – which was not a problem; as the time wore on, Rip struggled less, blocking out the occurrences in moments of blackness – Mack was all too happy to speak to him, answer any questions he had.

He kept the most important question quiet for a bit. He would found out the 'Why me?' of it all when the time was right. But the 'What do you mean?' question was the first one on the tip of his tongue.

Mack's response was a laugh. He had leaned in, his breath hot on Rip's ear, as the younger tried to control his facial expression – he was afraid that should Mack see his look of disgust, he might grow offended and (for once) shut his mouth. "Remember my birthday?" Rip did not move. "I found you, near naked, on the steps. You had a bit too much drink, Rip. Didn't even say anything when I led you out of the bunkroom and removed your clothes. In fact, you were quite the willing participant," he added, laughing again.

Rip almost snapped at that moment. But he did not – he could not. Mack was careful enough to make sure that he came looking for Rip when no other boys were in the bunkroom, or when they had all gone to sleep for the night. How would explain it to the others if Mack was hurt (or worse) when in his own company?

That did not mean that he was not planning something. To be repeatedly taken in a violation of human nature – as a Roman Catholic he believed that a man loving another man, a man _fucking _another man, was a crime against God – to be treated as less than a person by the one boy he thought was his comrade, there was no way that Mack would get away with it. Rip would just have to bide his time and wait.

And try not to remember.

There were the quick squeezes, the painful yanks, the forceful entries. The salty intrusion into his mouth, the sloppy drunken kisses. He drank more during the last quarter of 1894 than most boys do throughout their entire adolescence. Looking back on that dark period, Rip wondered how he survived. At the time, he wanted the drink to take him away, end it all. But it did not. It did, however, make him more susceptible to Mack's advances; the older boy knew when his victim became inebriated enough and attacked. Rip never fought back at night with Mack when he had already spent the afternoon with Old Tom.

There was never the thought that he would turn to any of the other boys for help. For one thing, none of them had ever liked him; the only one to befriend him had been Mack. For another, he was not entirely sure that they would believe he had been forced. To them, a queer was a queer. He would be thrown out on the streets before he could say another word on the subject – if they did not beat him senseless first.

So, rather than deal with any repercussions, Rip remained silent. He went about his business as normal, selling countless papers, looking over his shoulder for any signs of Spindle. She had not visited him since that time in September. After her confession, he had expected her to come to see him again. But the flow of time continued, and she did not return.

Thanksgiving of '94 was similar to the one of the year before. The charitable biddies from the Children's Aid Society threw a feast for the boys; Mack tried his luck with another one of their daughters. This time, however, Rip felt his advances were a sham. Would he follow this girl home and then return to sleep with him? Needless to say, he did not enjoy the meal.

Maria's birthday came about on the 11th of December. She would have been fifteen that year. Rip spent that day out on streets; he would rather have died, taking his chances with the Negroes who snuck around after dark, than let Mack taint him on Maria's birthday. Instead, he hid away in an alley – the same alley he had stayed with Spindle during her brief visit last May – and prayed. He prayed for his sister, he prayed for his family, he prayed for Daisy and he prayed for himself. He asked God for forgiveness. He would need it soon enough.

Christmas, as did much of those chilling months, passed by him in a drunken blur, punctuated by periods of self-loathing and pain. He, it seemed, was Mack's present to himself that year. But, still, Mack refused to leave the bunkroom alongside Rip. Maybe he was smarter than he let on; maybe he knew that, once they were far enough away from the Harlem House, Rip would snap and he would get his comeuppance for his sadistic treatment.

Either way – whether it be a lapse in Mack's cleverness or just plain dumb luck – Rip finally succeeded in luring Mack Turner away from the sanctuary of the House one night in January.

--

Spindle had visited him again that first day of 1895. She came bearing a gift for Rip – a sleek, steel blade of his own. He almost could not accept the knife, considering his disgust towards stab wounds, but eventually thanked Spindle. She did not expect anything in return for her gesture – it was an expensive knife, he knew, but she just said that is was to commemorate the holiday as well as his sixteenth birthday – but he gave her something more than she had expected: he told her he loved her.

The words were foreign and were said without much feeling but, when Spindle left that next morning – the pair had returned to 'their' alley and, in the dark, she could not see the bruises and marks inflicted by Mack – she was glowing. She promised to return when she could and he nodded. By the time she came back, Mack would not be a problem and they, as long as she stayed away from Cecilia Rayner's brothel, would not have to sneak around.

Rip felt much better about himself after Spindle had left. She had visited him with one thing on her mind. He had been reluctant, at first, to give in to her advances but he felt the need to prove himself – prove that he was not a queer. It was following their tryst in the alleyway that Rip uttered those fateful three words to Spindle Scott. In a way, he did so just to _prove _that Mack would not break him.

It would be Rip that would be doing the breaking.

It was on his birthday, the day after Spindle started her trip back to Queens, that Rip had the opportunity to exact revenge on Mack. It had been near four months since that night where Mack first began to violate Rip and the older boy assumed that there were no hard feelings between them both. He was aware that the 3rd of January was Rip's sixteenth birthday and he was eager to make it as special as his birthday was – at least for him.

When Rip told Mack that what he wanted was to take a walk and go somewhere 'private', Mack readily agreed. It may have been the liberal amounts of gin and whiskey that he consumed – Rip drank water from a gin-marked bottle to give himself the upper hand; if Mack was drunk while he was sober, Mack's size would not be an advantage any further - that knocked any lingering suspicions out of his mind but he followed the younger boy out of the Harlem House.

Mack usually was one to hold his liquor but Rip had offered glass after glass to him and he was effectively drunk. He stumbled down the road, his hazel eyes squinting against the setting sun, his shaggy brown hair flat. It was chilly out and, because he had been prepared to go after Rip, he had not worn a union suit. But Rip seemed unaffected by the cold and when he grabbed at the crotch of Mack's pants, Mack effectively warmed up as he grew aroused.

They continued walking a bit until the erection made it too painful for Mack to wait any longer. While he normally had control over himself, the liquor was playing with his sense. He began to grope at Rip's shirt.

Rip gently pulled his hands away. "Not here. Someone might see and I want privacy." He looked around, his icy blue eyes pretending to look for a perfect spot; as he had already planned the whole night out, he knew where he was going to bring Mack. He made a slight sound of surprise before grabbing Mack's arm. "There," he said, pointing at a small and empty building on the corner, with slabs of wood over the windows. The door had already been opened thanks to a kick from Rip's boot earlier that morning; he left the door propped closed so that it appeared locked. It would not do well to his plan if any squatters had taken residence inside. "Let's go in there."

Mack followed Rip. If he had been sober he might have been suspicious of the circumstances. But he was not sober – he was drunk and horny. He was busy with the top buttons of his slacks as Rip opened the door to the empty building. They were almost undone by the time Rip shut the door behind him.

Rip's face remained passive as he applauded himself. The hardest obstacle – getting Mack inside the building without getting defensive – had been cleared. Now he just had to get the boy to talk.

The older boy, it seemed, was not eager to talk. He was clumsily trying to remove his slacks without taking his shoes off first. He had not worn anything below the outermost layer of clothing – it was an unseasonably warm day, considering it was the beginning of January; unlike the year before, the snow had not arrived yet – and was exposed entirely. Rip fought the urge to stomp on Mack's erection. He deserved it, certainly, but it would not do to go after him until his questions were answered.

Instead, as much as it upset him, he took Mack into his hands. Mack's jaw hung open slightly, his eyes were only half opened, as he let out a moan. Rip had never reached for him before. It felt good.

Rip kept his focus on his hands. As they moved slowly, stroking the hardened flesh below his fingers, he imagined the blood draining downward, covering Mack entirely. He smirked and his grip tightened. "Mack?" It was time.

"Mmm?" He was enjoying Rip's touch.

"Why did you first fuck me?" Simple and to the point. He had finally gotten the chance to ask the question that had been haunting him.

He received a nice short answer in return. "Because I fuck anything and everything."

Rip drew his hand away. He wanted more of an answer than that.

Mack shuddered as the younger boy's erotic touch disappeared. He opened his eyes and glanced at Rip; he saw that he was serious and sighed. He lifted his hips off of the ground that they were sitting on so that Rip would return to business. "Seriously, Rip. If you haven't noticed by now, I lay with anything. Girls, boys, it don't matter to me as long as it's hot and wet."

Rip went back to work. "Why me?"

"I've wanted you since that day we saved you but I waited until you were ready. Call it initiation… if you will." He was panting now, with small grunts breaking into his sentences. "I've had most of the older boys in the Home. Why do you think they hate you, Rip? I only take in new meat when I get a hard on for them and some of the boys was jealous. I never touched another of them since cause I was waiting for you. I just spent more of my time at Cecilia's instead."

Rip was silent just then, digesting Mack's words. He was feeling ill, knowing that Mack had lusted after him for over a year, but Mack's next words made him feel sicker yet.

"Some of them watch us, you know. You think they're sleeping when I come crawling in with you but, when I get inside your ass, I can hear them. They get off to watching the good little Catholic boy getting fucked by a man. It's like they're watching you go to Hell."

"I'm already going to Hell," he answered, moving his hand faster. He did not want to hear any more of Mack's excuses. He wanted to get to the next stage of his plan: the part where Mack was not feeling pleasure but pain.

Then, just as if he had not been spouting words that justified his attacks on the boys younger than him, he released into Rip's hand. Rip did not flinch; he just leaned over wiped the fluid onto Mack's chest. The older boy was breathing heavily, his eyes just slits in his face. However, as Rip leaned in, he saw the cross that hung around his neck. "You know, something. Staring at that while you was getting me off, reminded me. I remember that cross, now…" he panted slightly, trying to lift his hand to reach for it. Rip let him, surprised. This was not the first time, nor the second time, that Mack had mentioned his jewelry. He always, when he saw it, laughed and said he remembered staring at the little Jesus hanging there, staring at him. _Could it be?_

Now, Rip's plan had been to hurt Mack as much as he could. He would beat him, kick him and, then, violate him in the same manner that he, himself, had been violated. He had never fucked another boy before but to show Mack how it felt, he would.

But the best laid plans could hit a snag. As Mack sat there, sweaty and slick with body fluids, his hand reaching out and fondling the gold cross that hung around Rip's neck, Rip changed his plans. He had still been leaning forward; he moved closer, nearly an inch separating his and Mack's mouths. "What did you say?"

Mack seemed to enjoy the proximity between the pair of them. At least, he answered Rip's question. "I remember a cross like this. We had gone out of Harlem a year or so ago to meet up with some boys on the…uh…Lower East Side, in Manhattan, I think, when we found ourselves amongst the wops. Little Italy, full of a slimy bunch of asses. Damn dagos."

He was reaching the breaking point. The emotions that had lain dormant ever since that first night with Mack were stretching taut. Rip chose to overlook the Italian slurs in order to prod Mack further in his story. There was a knot in his stomach; he had the sick suspicion that he knew where this was going. "Yeah. But what about the cross?"

Mack's eyes opened a little wider. Rip had all but crawled into his naked lap. He was touching his bare chest as he spoke. Rip was never affectionate; this struck him as odd and his eyes began to open a bit wider. Despite his drunken state, he was beginning to question Rip's motives. "What's so important about that shit?"

"I'm just… curious."

"Alright." Mack was still out of it and accepted Rip's simplistic answer. "It just all happened so fast. It was me and a couple of the boys and some pretty little wop girl comes running across us. All in white. Real nice. But she didn't talk too nice. All I wanted was a little kiss and she called me a 'stupid mick'. But I ain't Mick. I'm Mack. So I hit her. After she fell, I got on top of her and reached for her dress." He stopped in his explanation and grinned. He looked incredibly goofy. "I was gonna fuck her, right in front of my boys. Show her who's boss, you know, Rip? Well, she started to cry and I stopped. When a girl cries, I feel a bit bad. Then she took out her fucking cross, like that was gonna stop me. But I couldn't get it up when she was crying so I left her alone. Stupid tramp. So now, when I see a cross, I think of her. She would have been a nice lay, too."

He laughed just then. A sick laugh. Mack really did believe that he could take anyone he wanted. _He had tried to take Maria. Just like he had done to me. Maria…_

There was no doubt in Rip's mind that Mack was referring to his sister. _A year or so ago… Little Italy… A girl in white… The cross… _Mack had been with Maria – had tried to take her innocence – before she died. But had he killed her? "Did you happen to _hurt _the girl?" He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. He did not want to give anything away.

Mack looked confused, almost as if he could not comprehend what Rip was asking. Finally, he shook his head. "Nah. Just left her in the park we found her. I can't touch a girl when she cries," he answered, shrugging his shoulder. Then, with his grin back in place, he reached out and pulled on the waist of Rip's slacks. "My turn."

He did not pull away just yet. Rather, Rip snapped; he did not believe Mack. He reached behind him with his right hand and pulled Spindle's gift to him out of the back pocket. Mack did not even see the movement. The blade was lifted and buried to the hilt within his side before he knew it. "No, Mack. It's _my _turn."

_Riposi_ _In Pace… Mack._

His hands were a bit bloodier now. His prayers grew a bit longer.


	16. XVI VINDICATION

Author's Note: _Well, here is the second to last chapter of this story. It's so strange to think that this chapter in Rip's life is going to be over in one week. At least I still have all of Obsession to work on before following that with other stories. And there is still Can't Keep Running, which reunites Rip with the SSM world. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. And, remember, only one more to go!_

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

09.13.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XVI

In years to come, when Rip allowed himself to relive that night – the second life ever extinguished by his hands – he was not sure how exactly he made it back to the Harlem House entirely whole. If he thought back, and tried to remember, he could see pieces and scenes running before his eyes. In a way, it was as if he was detached from himself, watching vaguely over him.

Mack, with that eternally surprised expression, was on the ground; death had been quick. Rip was pulling the blade out of the wound and, nonchalantly, wiping it on Mack's discarded slacks. The shiny, sticky crimson blood soaked into the fabric and faded from sight. The knife was clean and slipped back in his pocket. Briefly he thanked Spindle for her gift – it had come in handy.

He checked himself to make sure that there was no blood on his hands. The proverbial dirt remained with him but, literally, he was clean. He left Mack behind. The door closed and he put the thought of the fallen leader behind him.

A big part of that night was Maria. Mack's final words, that final statement, right before he died… They were on his mind that night and many nights that followed. Was he telling the truth? Was there more to it? Was it really Maria? And, the most important one of them all: if Mack did not do it then who did?

After that sudden release of anger directed at Mack, resulting in his death, Rip was cold and emotionless once more. As he rolled Mack's hardening corpse into a shadowed corner of the abandoned building, he saw it as nothing more than manual labor. When he cleansed the blade of split life, he watched his icy eyes in the reflection of the steel, his mouth a straight line.

It was not until he was outside, his dirtied hands hidden in the pockets of his own slacks, that he tried to make sense of what had happened. He had entered the house with the intent to put Mack in his place; he had exited it a murderer – a murderer who was one step closer in vindicating the death of his sister, if he had not done so already. _Wouldn't that just be the work of the Lord that he made me pay for my sins by trial before I could break myself of his hold and discover that he had taken Maria from me? _

The only thing he was sure of was that he made it back to the Harlem House shortly before curfew. Mister Smith was just locking up the House for the night when he approached. There had been a shake of the head and a stern finger wagging but Rip ignored him and, quietly, slipped inside the House.

For the first time in only God knew how long, Rip did not say his prayers. Rather, he climbed into his bunk and, without the threat of Mack crawling into it, he slept soundly.

--

For that first week, nobody seemed to even notice that Mack was missing. The boys in the Harlem House were used to tenants coming and going – some boys found better lodging, moved on or just plain disappeared – the when Mack did not fill his bunk for a few days, no one said a word. It was not rare for him to be gone for a bit. Cecilia Rayner allowed him to stay over at her brothel at times or he might visit other friends. But, when nearly a month passed, people began to whisper.

_Where is Mack? _

Mack had been one of the first boys ever to lodge at the Harlem House. He used to brag that he would stay there as long as he could. Yet, almost a full month had gone by and he had not returned. None of the other boys saw him selling newspapers nor did they hear of him stopping by the brothel. It was as if he had just vanished.

Rip pretended to be curious for the sake of the other boys. He knew well enough that, without Mack to protect him – a protection, now that he understand the root of it all, he resented – that it was only a matter of time before some of the other boys looked towards him. If what Mack had told him was true then there were some boys who, not only had slept with Mack themselves, but knew that Mack had been doing the same thing to him.

Whether his acting was accepted unquestioningly or the others just did not care, overall, what happened to Mack, no one ever asked Rip implicitly if he knew what happened to the older boy. That did not mean, though, that certain boys did not have their suspicions. Rip caught Trace watching him out of the corner of his eyes more than once.

Then the winter season, late in its arrival, hit and all thoughts other than surviving through February and March of 1895 flew from the newsboys' minds. They lost more than one boy that season: Nickels, unable to make lodging one night, was found frozen in the back alley down the street from the Harlem House; Bean slipped on a stretch of ice and snapped something – he could not afford to see a doctor and, rather than deal with the pain, he purposely journeyed into the Negro tenements and shouted slurs at them. They did not kill him out right; he died later that night, just after making it back to the House. Trace, the closest to family that Bean ever had, was devastated.

It was easy for Rip to pretend like the loss of boys like Nickels and Bean meant something to him. Despite his cold exterior, his feelings – lost temporarily after Mack's murder – came back with the second anniversary of Maria's death in March. It was no easier to deal with her loss two years later, especially now that he thought he knew who _her_ murderer was. And, if it was Mack as he believed, despite his refusal to claim responsibility, then he had already avenged her death. However, it was one thing to think that it was Mack; he wanted to be sure of it. Every day that he did not know, the gold cross around his neck became heavier.

When spring finally spread over Harlem, it was hard to remember who had lived in the House prior to the start of 1895. With the discovery that Nickels and Bean, among others, had died, it was understood that Mack must have met the same fate. And that was that.

The biggest concern came down to who was in charge. With the onset of much pleasanter weather in April, there was an increase in the number of boys who came to the Harlem House in search of a place to stay. Rip could not help but look at most of them, their faces unhardened by the street, and pity them. He must have looked as naïve as they did when Mack found him. He was no longer naïve; at sixteen years old, Rip Divenize felt _old_.

He kept out of the discussions of who was the new leader of the House. While Mister Smith, entering into his second year of being the House's adult supervisor, was nominally in charge, the boys felt the need to have one of their own raised above the rest. As far back as all of them could remember Mack had always been that boy. With his disappearance – now that three months had passed, they assumed he would never return and that it was high time they chose a new leader – he left the House in a lurch.

It was finally decided that Trace Flannery would be the new head of the House. He was seventeen years old and one of the oldest boys in the House. He had grown quite responsible following Beans' death. He, in a way, felt that it was his fault, that he could have stopped the pain. But he did not and Beans took the only way out that he could. Trace did not want that to happen to any of the other boys.

He wanted a second-hand man, though, a boy that had been in the House for awhile and knew Mack. Beans, obviously, would have been the best choice but that was now impossible. Strangely enough, he seemed to settle on Rip.

Trace's reasons were simple enough: Rip had been in the House for over a year and a half and, because he had arrived at such a late age, he was old enough to be respected. He glossed over the earlier harsh treatment of the boy; he acknowledged an initial dislike but said that none of the newer boys had anything against him. If anything, they just thought him odd for his refusal to skip his prayers. And, lastly, Trace justified his choice by saying the Mack had liked Rip and if Mack liked Rip, then that was good enough for the other boys.

However, the way that Trace stressed the word 'liked' was not lost on Rip. He accepted the position with one goal in mind: to get close enough to the new leader to ask him some questions.

His opportunity came quite soon, actually. Quite relaxed after spending a morning with Spindle – she had come to try to convince him to follow her to Queens again and, to her thrill, he had said 'maybe'; even if he said it only so she would sleep with him one more time before she journeyed back, it made her happy – Rip arrived in the bunkroom to find that Trace was sitting on Mack's old bunk. He was, in his embrace, holding one of Beans' old shirts.

Rip wondered briefly if he should leave but, before he could leave the older boy in peace, Trace saw him. "Rip," he said, his voice sounded throaty. It sounded almost as if he had been crying. "I've been wondering when I would get to see you alone."

He shrugged, trying not the feel uncomfortable. It had taken nearly three months of numbness for his emotions to return and he was not used to the feelings they invoked. Sometimes he wished the emotionless states he frequently found himself in remained. "I'm always alone, Trace. I sell by myself everyday," he replied.

"Yes, but I couldn't just search you out to chat, could I?"

Rip did not reply. He was too busy wondering where Trace was going with this.

Trace slowly stood up from the bunk, placing Beans' faded brown shirt at the foot of the bed. "Do you miss him?"

The question came from out of nowhere but, somehow, Rip had been expecting it yet. Nevertheless, he feigned ignorance. "Who?"

"I think you know who I mean, Rip."

He shook his head. "No. You?"

"I… I don't know. Mack made me feel like I belonged when I first got here. He took me under his wing and looked after me, you know? And if that's what he wanted, then he could have it," Trace confessed, his nose wrinkling as he spoke. "I ain't no queer, Rip, and I know you ain't either. But Mack… he didn't care."

Rip tried not to indicate that anything that Trace said rang true with him but Trace knew already. The memory of the last conversation with Mack rang in Rip's head: '_Some of them watch us, you know. You think they're sleeping when I come crawling in with you but, when I get inside your ass, I can hear them. They get off to watching the good little Catholic boy getting fucked by a man. It's like they're watching you go to Hell._' Trace's next statement verified his suspicions.

"I wanted to help you, Rip, honest. But some of the other boys, Rocky and, bless him, Beans, didn't want to. They thought it was funny, watching you get poked in the ass by Mack. Jealous, I think. They liked it when Mack jumped them and, I think, they was jealous of you. I admit that I wanted attention. Not that kind, cause, hell, that shit was real messed up, but I wanted someone to hold me – and not just some whore I paid." He sighed. "It hurts, Rip, and I know that. But Mack was real crazy."

Rip lifted his head. Rather than focus on discussing what had happened in his bunk – he still had to sleep in it and whenever he remembered what Mack had done to him in it, it was hard – he decided to ask Trace about Mack's last confession. "Crazy, Trace? Crazy like how?"

Trace shook his head sadly and Rip was surprised to see the boy look so forlorn. The loss of his pal had hit him hard; he was nothing like the rough and tumble bully he had been when Rip first arrived at the Harlem House. "I heard something once, Rip, and I was never sure if it was true or not."

"Like what?"

"Like killing. Beans told me – you know, he was here before I got here, about two years ago – that Mack used to show off. They was in Manhattan one day: Mack, Beans, and another boy who left shortly after, and…"

"And, what?" Rip knew his voice contained much more emotion than any of the other boys had heard before but he did not care. He needed to know the truth – if Mack did not do it, then he needed to continue in his search for the true murderer. He felt that, especially after killing a second person, he would never be clean until she, at least, was at rest.

Trace looked taken aback but, regardless, continued with his story. "Well, Beans told me that what Mack wanted to do was fuck some little girl, right out in the open. I don't know why or anything, but they ran across some girlie just outside a park and he thought she would be tight. Beans and the other kid, Snaps or something, tried to talk him out of it but he cornered the girl. The girl started to cry after Mack got her down and, who knows why, but Mack couldn't get it up." Trace paused momentarily, his gloomy mood broken by a snort. Both boys knew from experience that Mack was always raring to go.

Rip was not in the mood to reminisce. As it was, Trace's tale paralleled exactly what Mack had told him earlier. "Then what?"

"Well, Beans said that him and Snaps started to laugh. Hell, even the girl stopped crying. She looked at him and spat out something in another language. I think he told me that she ended up being a wop and, get this, wasn't too fond of an Irish boy trying to work his way under her dress. Beans and Snaps walked away and let him get yelled at by this girl. He regretted it later, though. When Mack finally met up with them later, he was bloody and said something about showing the hussy who was the boss. They never talked about it again but he used to tell me that Mack killed her and that's why most of the other boys let him fuck them. They was afraid to be like that girl."

Rip listened to Trace tell his story, his hands clenching tightly just as the older boy finished speaking. _I knew it. Maria… _ His whole body seemed heavy just then and a sharp pain shot through his chest. After two years of not knowing, two years of wondering what had happened to her, he knew. True, his justification was based on hearsay and gossip from a bunch of rascals but he accepted it.

And, as Trace stared at the boy standing before him, shaking slightly and not saying a word, he watched as something happened that none of the boys in the Harlem House had ever seen before – or believed, when Trace gossiped about in the months that followed Rip's own disappearance.

Rip Divenize began to cry.


	17. XVII DRUG INDUCED EPIPHANIES

Author's Note: _And there we have it. The final (full chapter - and the longest, damn it!) of Rip's story, of _A Virgin's Touch. _I just want to say, right now, that I have never been so proud of something in my life. I really tried to test myself as a writer with this – it is the first time that I gave myself a deadline and stuck to it (more or less). It is the first M-rated story I ever did, the first story done with entirely original characters (no movie characters involved, damn), the first story with such controversial topics. Woot. And, because I can't believe it's finished, I'll say it again: Woot._

_I say this is the last full chapter because I am debating on adding an epilogue of sorts – I always wondered if I should actually put the epilogue in that tied AVT to CLAK – you know, show Rip's first day in Queens and the ideas and thoughts that led to the actions in CLAK. If anyone is interested in an epilogue, I will be more than happy to write it. If no one says anything, I'll leave that all to your imaginations._

_I do want to say thank you to all the awesome reviewers – especially Biddy! You were with me all the way, since the beginning, and for that I thank you: THANK YOU! I love getting reviews of all sorts – they let me know what anyone thinks of my work and, trust me, sometimes a little appreciation is all a writer needs to keep them going. We do this for free, for a love of writing. It's just nice to be appreciated sometimes._

_That being said, I think I'm finished with this (last?) author note. I will implore you, as I always do, to review. I would be ever so grateful. It took a lot out of me to finish this story. I would love to know what you thought of it. _

_Thank you for reading. – stress._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

09.20.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XVII

Trace, Rip soon learned, was quite different than Mack. While Mack, as leader, used his position to bum lodging fare off of the younger boys so that he did not have to sell too many newspapers – he preferred to spend his time in the brothel, sleeping his way through the various girls' rooms – Trace sold almost as obsessively as Rip did.

But, while Rip did so in order to make sure that he always had sufficient funds, Trace had another reason. And, one day in the second week of May in 1895, he let the younger boy in on his secret.

They had grown closer in the time following Mack's disappearance; luckily for Rip, the boy's body was never identified. He heard a rumor out on the streets that some kid was found stabbed to death in an abandoned hovel but no one ever connected the dead boy to Mack's long absence.

Rip's relationship with Trace never was as close as the one he had with Mack – before Mack started assaulting him, of course – but it was a friendship of convenience. Trace needed someone to replace his closest pal, Beans. Rip liked the idea of Trace being the leader of the House; as second-in-command, Rip was awarded all sorts of benefits – Mister Smith was quite generous and lenient with the boys who kept the younger ones in line.

And, of course, their shared experience of sexual abuse at Mack's perverted hands was something else they had in common. It was these memories that lent themselves to Trace's hidden hobby: searching out the local opium den, getting intoxicated in order to forget the unpleasantries and revel in the pleasure of the time.

It had been a little over a month since Trace and Rip had their conversation about Mack. Not knowing what to do as Rip stood there crying, Trace awkwardly patted his back. That cemented the fledgling friendship; from that moment on, the pair could often be seen talking after hours, discussing the events of the day. Both insisted on selling on their own and neither returned to the House early, preferring to sell as many newspapers as possible. They walked almost the entire length of Harlem between them, excusing the Negro tenements in Lower Harlem. Rip still remembered his first day in Harlem, how he had stumbled into the area and almost was beaten for his ignorance. Trace, understandably, refused to go in that area in response to Bean's death. As much as he blamed himself for Bean's death, he blamed 'those damn Niggers' more.

Rip was never exactly sure why Trace let him in his secret. But, one night, after the other boys had all fallen asleep, Trace invited him to spend the afternoon with him. Rip was quite interested to see what Trace had in mind so he agreed. The next morning, after washing up and leaving the House, Trace informed him that they could sell the morning edition of the newspaper but they would not return to the distribution center to purchase copies of the afternoon edition; Trace had somewhere he wanted to take Rip. It was a gesture of gratitude, a 'thank you' he said. Rip did not want to look ungrateful. He agreed to accompany Trace.

It must be said that, despite having walked near all of Harlem in his year and a half in the city, Rip never came across the seedy building that Trace led him to that afternoon. He had, of course, seen it in passing and thought nothing of the structure. It was small and dingy on the outside with no sign to announce it's purpose. He had assumed it a tenement, with the bums that lazed about on the porch. The loiterers that littered the front of the building, coupled with the strange aroma being emitted out from the dark windows, made Rip feel uncomfortable. He had never stopped in front of it before, not even to peddle his newspapers.

He was surprised when, after they had finished selling the limited amount of papers they had purchased, Trace led him directly in front of the building. Rip had assumed that they had to pass the place in order to arrive at Trace's destination but the older boy did not continue walking once he reached the small building. Instead, he grinned and jerked his thumb at the closed doorway. "We're here."

Rip crossed his arms over his chest. "You've got to be kidding me, Flannery."

"Nope. This is it. My second home," Trace answered. "Come on." He began to walk up the few steps that led to the doorway, stepping over a man that was sleeping on the bottom stair of the porch.

Rip hesitated. But, as Trace reached a dirty hand out to the doorknob, Rip went forward. As much as he did not want to admit it, he was a bit curious. _If this is Trace's second home, why doesn't he sleep here rather than staying at the Harlem House, _he wondered as he took care to make sure that he did not step on the man. The tip of his shoe nudged the sleeper slightly despite Rip's care. The man did not move.

He moved faster, just in time to follow Trace inside of the building. His first instinct, once he had closed the door behind him, was to cough slightly and cover his mouth. The room, though very dark – there was only a handful of oil lamps illuminating the room – was very smoky.

Trace heard Rip's cough and elbowed him. "Don't breathe in all the way, Rip. It takes a bit of getting used to at first but you'll be fine. Besides, you don't want these fellas to know that you're new here, right?"

"Where are we?" Rip asked in response. He took Trace's advice and began to breathe more shallowly; it was easier to breathe but the strange smell of the smoke – the same smell he had noticed before when he had passed this building – was intensified inside. It was making him light-headed.

Trace laughed at Rip's naivety. "Are you tellin' me, Rip, that you ain't never been to an opium den?"

"An… opium den?" Rip repeated, trying to make sure he heard right. Obviously, he had never been to an opium den before – and he was not sure he wanted to be in one just then. He had heard stories, overheard actually, about what happened in places like this. And, while he smoked the occasional cigarette and was no stranger to drink, he had never taken a drug in his life. "No."

Trace, who had only moments ago elbowed him in the chest, now clapped him on the back. "Mack used to tell me that you had to fuck someone to be considered a man. Me? I live for a good drag on an opium pipe. Let's make a man out of you, Rip."

"Alright," Rip agreed. _What's the worst that could happen? _

"Follow me," Trace said before weaving his way deeper into the room. Rip was surprised to notice that his eyes were slowly becoming accustomed to the dark. He could see that there were people lounging all over the room, most of them reclining in lush chairs or on dirty mattresses on the floor. Almost all of them – the ones that were awake a least – were dangling a long pipe between their fingers. All of them, conscious or not, were smiling lazily.

There was a single day bed vacant in one corner of the room. Trace led Rip over to it and, with a point, he gestured for him to sit. Rip did so, watching as Trace emerged back into the smoky darkness, leaving him alone.

The older boy returned within a few minutes, clutching a small blob of something – _the opium? _– in his hand. He grinned at Rip before taking a seat. "This is the opium, Rip. Kind of expensive but it's worth it."

"Interesting," Rip replied dryly, glancing at the small gummy substance that just sat in Trace's open palm. "If it's so expensive, how do you afford it?"

"I sell a lot of papers," Trace replied simply before shrugging. Rip could feel the motion and could tell that Trace was lying a bit. He clucked his tongue in disbelief and Trace chuckled. "Alright, that and I take some stuff from around the House. Stuff people don't mind, mostly, but I can barter it for some more of the drug when the headline's bad."

"Oh. Is that why you kept trying to steal my chain, Flannery?" Rip asked, finally understanding why he had woken up those few times to see Trace hovering over him, trying to take the gold cross necklace.

His chuckle was a little hesitant. "Yeah," he said at last. "Sorry about that, Rip."

"No worries. I got a good hit off of you for that," Rip answered. Trace's nose had swelled after Rip hit him out of surprise the last time he caught Trace – Trace had stopped trying to steal the jewelry after that.

The boy was obviously eager to change the subject. He closed his fist around the blob of opium for a moment as he search over at the side of the day bed. Rip only had a few seconds to try to figure out just what Trace was doing before he lifted something up with his free hand. It looked almost like a bowl – a bowl with a pipe attached to it.

From the flickering flame of the oil lamp situated near their seat, Rip watched as Trace placed the opium inside the hole on the bowl. He placed the bowl on the bed between him and Rip before reaching for something else on the ground. He carried it whatever it was by the handle and when he lifted it so that Rip could see it, the younger boy saw that it was a burner with a red-hot charcoal placed inside.

Trace removed the bowl from the seat and, instead, set the burner between them both. He placed the opium bowl onto top of the burner before bringing the pipe to his lips. He blew on it delicately, the air he blew traveling through the pipe and out underneath the bowl so that it was encouraging the bit of coal to burn even hotter.

Rip watched with an interest in his icy blue eyes as Trace continued to blow on the pipe. It was not before long that the opium began to vaporize, sending a cloud of smoke directly above their bowl.

Once he saw the smoke that was being given off, Trace removed his mouth from the pipe. He began to inhale the smoke. "Come on, Rip," he said in between breaths. "Give it a try."

Rip could not really see what the interest was in breathing in smoke but he did so. Like he had before, he coughed before remembering Trace's words of advice. His second breath was much easier than the first.

It was not long before the drug began to take effect. Trace seemed to be used to the drug and was passed out, like many of the other patrons of the den, almost at once. At first, Rip felt a bit nauseous and dizzy; the feelings reminded him vaguely of the first day after he drank nearly the entire bottle of Old Tom Gin. However, such sensations did not last long and, before he knew it, there was a wide grin stretching out his own face.

He was feeling _good._

Rip continued to inhale the smoke given off from the opium. It was only after much of the drug had melted off into the air that he grew drowsy. Using the relaxed body of the sleeping Trace as a support, Rip fell asleep.

--

_Whether it was the aftereffects of the drugs or the freedom awarded by the drugs that let his unconscious state wander, Rip felt like he was floating. But he was not awake, he knew. Because people who are awake and conscious did not float and, as he looked down, he saw only air._

_People_ _who were awake, he knew, also did not see ghosts before them. And, as he floated through an eerie fog and stifling darkness, he could see them. He could see the ghosts._

_The forms came first and, though he was too far away to make out any features, he knew who they were at once. Maybe it was because it was a dream or maybe it was because he had been waiting for this since the moment when Maria was found dead beneath the Washington Arch in Washington State Park… Either way, they had come for him. The phantoms of his misdeeds, the ghosts of his anger, the specter of his own self-loathing. _

_All of the feelings he had locked up and suppressed since that day, they came flooding back momentarily, as he seemed to float closer to the trio before him. As he moved slowly forward he was able to make out certain characteristics that only furthered their identification._

_There were three of them, one definitely younger than the other two. The first was quite short and, he could see, had long hair, dark as night – a female, obviously. The second was as equally female; though the face was hidden from him, she too had long hair and a full bosom. The last was the tallest of the three and definitively male._

_It was quiet. All he could hear was the frantic beat of his own heart. The happiness he had felt as an effect of the magical drug had all but ceased as fear, a fear beyond anything he had ever known, gripped at his chest. His throat all but closed up. He could not say a word._

_But he could hear. The third of them was speaking – no, not speaking. He was mumbling. Rip strained his ears to hear and, as he did so, a sudden light illuminated the figure. Just as he had known, the male was Mack. But this was not Mack as he remembered him; this Mack was gaunt and unsmiling. Rip could see the dribble of blood that had spilt from his mouth upon expiring. Even worse, Rip could see Mack holding onto his side, blood staining his hands. His wound was still bleeding…_

"_My turn… my turn… my turn…"_

_The words, a mockery of the last words Mack Turner had said in life, made Rip's stomach turn. He moved his head to the side, gazing at the second specter instead. But, as he did so, the light moved._

_The second figure was Daisy, the prostitute that first sullied his hands and showed him to what extent his anger could take him. To look upon her, almost two years dead, was much harder than to gaze upon Mack's ghost._

_She was clad in the mauve robe that she had been wearing the night he met her. Her hair, which had fallen free during their intercourse, was hanging in folds past her shoulder. The rouge and powered had melted from her face but the powder was still clear on her neck – except for ten finger size bruises that dotted the length of her throat. The tell-tale signs of her strangulation death._

_She, too, was moaning. Her voice, while low, was more nagging than Mack's and if he had been thinking sensibly – which, when in a dream, most people did not do – he would have covered his ears. But he was not thinking sensibly and all he could hear was: "Do you have a thing for dead girls, Luke? I'm dead now, Luke… Do you want to fuck me again?"_

"_No," Rip found himself saying. "Leave me alone…"_

"_Luke? Is that you, _fratello maggiore_?"_

Maria?

"Sorella?" _he asked__turning to look at the first of the three specters. The light that illuminated the girl – his sister, Maria Divenize – did not seem to come from above; rather, it seemed to come from within the girl._

_She looked just the same as the day she had died: the same white dress (the bloodstains notably absent), the same dark curls, the same blue eyes, the same innocent smile. The only difference was the gold cross that she had worn. Rip was wearing it now._

_Unlike the other two ghosts, Maria was smiling. She looked genuinely happy to see him. "Luke. _È così meraviglioso vederlo ancora." _It seemed that her appearance was not the only difference. She was not referencing her regrets before death; she was having a conversation with her brother instead._

"Voi anche." _It felt so nice to speak the old tongue again; he had spent too much time amongst the Irish. It felt even nicer to see Maria again. She was as lovely as ever. He just did not have the words – in either English or Italian – to express his feelings. Fear was replaced with joy and, with that joy, came awe._

_Maria did not seem to mind that he could not speak. Her smile wavered slightly. "_Sietecambiato."

"Sono spiacente_."_

"_Do not be, Luke," Maria answered, switching back to English. "You did what you felt was right. But, I am here to warn you. You must leave Harlem as soon as you can. It's not safe."_

_Out of the corner of his eyes, Rip saw the light begin to shine on Mack. The dead boy was making silent screams, his body convulsing as blood dripped out of his stab wound at an unnatural pace. Rip shut his eyes._

"_Where do I go, Maria?"_

_The light doubled so that it was reaching Daisy as well. She was not moving like Mack was. Her body was still, her breathing nonexistent. Her wide eyes were open staring accusingly but she did not move. She was the very image of her brutal death._

_Maria's voice brought Rip's attention back to her. "Harlem holds too much pain for you, _fratello_. Manhattan, though you were not there long, is not the place to be. And, as much as it hurts me to say, you can not return home. My death had been avenged, Luke. You put me to rest. But it is no longer home. _Non per me o voi."

_He knew that. But that did not help him with his question. He had nowhere to go._

"Non si preoccupy_, Luke. You will find a home for you. And, when you do, you will find salvation. I will be there waiting for you."_

"_Maria…"_

_The light was beginning to dim. The sensation that he was floating on air was fading. _

_Rip struggled to hold onto the dream, the vision. "Maria!"_

_He could hardly make her out in the dark; Mack and Daisy had already disappeared. "_Seloricordi di, _Luke_. Ti amo."

"Ti amo, anche. Siete il mio cuore. _Maria..._"

_There was a sad, strange sound – almost like a choir of angels calling back to one of their own. It went straight to the core of Rip's heart and he screwed up his face in pain. And then… then there was nothing._

--

He awoke on the plush day bed, leaning up against a snoring Trace. The boy was grinning stupidly in his sleep, his chest rising and falling with every breath. The opium they had been inhaling had faded, the flame underneath had died while they rested. But the euphoric feeling was still there, restored after the nightmare he had just had. With the understanding that he was awake and what had just passed was, in fact, a dream, he was no longer afraid. The opium kept the fear from returning.

Maybe it was because he still felt so pleasant – it was the first time in _years _he had felt so _good _– but he was not afraid of the message from his dreams. Rather, he took it to heart. The phantoms plaguing him, watching his every step, listening over his prayers… They had appeared to him and gave him a message. He was listening to it.

_I have to get out of Harlem. I have to go as soon as possible… possible… possible…_

The last word rang in his head as he stood from the bed. Trace, without Rip's body to lean up again, fell to his side and remained asleep. Rip snorted before leaving the room. He could just imagine Trace's face when he awoke to find his buddy gone. But, if Trace woke up feeling as good as Rip did just then, happy and carefree, Rip did not think he would mind too much.

As he left the den, he could understand the smiles that graced the faces of the intoxicated patrons. The intense smell of the room even seemed sweeter to him as he left. The cool air that met him as he left the building was almost like a slap in the face. It woke him up a bit; he was slowly becoming re-accustomed to his surroundings as he stumbled back down the steps. It was easier this time as the sleeper from the afternoon was gone and none had taken his place on the stairs.

_If I have to get out of Harlem, where do I go?_

Rip made a decision just then, smiling widely as he made his way back to the Harlem House. It was late – too late to get inside as the door had already been locked for the night when Mister Smith left; it suddenly made sense to Rip why, some nights, Trace never returned to the House – he did not mind. He was still on a high from the opium; nothing could bother him at that moment. To make matters better, he had seen his Maria, his sweet Maria. And Maria promised him that he would be saved if he left his ghosts behind him in Harlem.

All he had to do was pick up and leave Harlem and he would be freer than he had been. The blood from Mack's murder stained his every movement; he would not be saved if he remained in such a haunted location. For the same reason, he could not return to Little Italy or Manhattan. The presence of Maria's ghost and his broken family made it impossible for him to return; Manhattan was slick with the spilt blood of Daisy.

But, he grinned to himself, it was all right. He did not need to stay in Harlem, nor return to either Little Italy or the area of the Tenderloin. There was another option. After all, how long has Spindle been trying to convince him to accompany her to Queens? Maria promised him salvation. He would find it there.

_Rockaway, here I come. I guess I'm going to fucking Queens with Spindle – with Caity. _Prego al Dio _I just hope it treats me better than Harlem did. _

He hands were already too blood-stained as it was.

--

Translations:

_fratello_ _maggiore_ – big brother  
_sorella_ – sister  
_è così meraviglioso vederlo ancora_ - it is so wonderful to see you again  
_voi_ _anche_ – you too  
_siete_ _cambiato_ – you've changed  
_sono_ _spiacente_ - I am sorry  
_non per me o voi_ – not for me or you  
_selo_ _ricordi di_ – remember me  
_ti_ _amo_ - I love you  
_ti_ _amo, anche_ – I love you, too  
_siete_ _il mio cuore_ – you are my heart  
_prego_ _al Dio_ – I pray to God


	18. XVIII MARIA REBORN

Author's Note: _And there we have it, the epilogue as was requested. A Virgin's Touch is now 100 percent complete. And, you know what, I kind of wish it wasn't. Hey – at least we have Obsession: CLAK, no?_

_I want to take this time to thank you to all the people who have ever read this. And, a huge round of applause to: _

Rae, theingenue, Matchin' Laces, Aisling, Hair, caddyhat15, Bittah, madmbutterfly713, Elyse, pennylayne, Biddy, Bookie, GeckoPixie, Lady of Tir Na Nog, ct, Chill92, Utopia Today, midnight1899, _and_ Bryna…

for actually, at any point, stopping to review this. It meant so much to me. You guys rock!

_Once again, thank you for reading. You guys made the journey incredible. – stress._

Disclaimer: _These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Luke/Rip & his family, Caitlin/Spindle, and Jessa, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story. Any others belong to their respective authors and will be noted in individual disclaimers._

---

A Virgin's Touch

09.27.06

_They say that what men desire is a virgin who is a whore.  
Maybe that's what I was looking for. It's what I made her, after all._

---

PART XVIII

Once his decision was made Rip had no desire to recant it. Rather, his only concern was when he would be able to leave the Harlem Lodging House for good. Knowing Spindle as well as he did, he knew that it would not be long before she found him again. Following his accidental (false) admission of affection, the girl had made the trek from Queens more frequently than she had before. It was only a matter of time.

It was on the 24th of May that she finally returned to see him. For the first time in their near two year history, Rip actually saw her before her green eyes found him.

It was a beautiful day, quite warm for late spring, and he had already finished selling the morning edition of the _New York Sun_; the headline had been to dull for his liking and he did not feel up to peddling some great number of a dud paper.

So, with the sleeves of his faded blue button down shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his hands casually resting in the back pockets of his black slacks, Rip had taken to wandering about the nearby park. It was a beautiful day and he did not want to spend it with Trace at the den – after the strange dream he had, he refused to return to the smoky hours – or inside the Harlem House. Instead, he walked the outer edge of the park, walking under the trees, waiting until it was time to return to the distribution center for the afternoon edition, hot off the presses (hopefully with a better headline.)

The contents of the _Sun _became forgotten when he saw the back of a red-head walking a bit of a way before him. Without even seeing the girl's face, he knew it was Spindle; he could tell by the very way her body moved, swaying and swinging provocatively, as she walked. "Caity?"

The girl froze before spinning around, an annoyed look on her face. But, when she recognized Rip as the one who called her by her true first name, the annoyed look melted into happiness. "Rip? Rip!" She did not run to him – she was much too dignified for that – but she did a mild jog to arrive at his side. Before she could stop herself, or think about his reaction, she reached forward and hugged him.

Rip tensed but the tension was short-lived. Relaxing in her embrace, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around her tight. "Spindle," he called her now, murmuring into her ear.

In the coming years, when Rip looked back to the day that truly changed his life – the day he followed Spindle out of Harlem in favor of Far Rockaway, Queens – he could pinpoint that exact moment as one of the two moments that set the course of his life forever. It was at that moment that Rip made a promise; it was not a promise to himself but to the girl in his arms.

"My Spindle…"

Spindle heard his whisper and squeezed him in response before drawing back. "Do you mean it, Rip? Am I… your's?"

He took a deep breath before answering. "Of course. I… I love you." _Ti amo?_ _Maria… _

"I love you, too, Rip. I always have." She leaned forward into him again, placing her head on his shoulder. "I told you. You belong to me," she added, whispering back to him. He could almost feel the curve of her grin as it pressed into his neck.

Rip felt awkward. There was that nagging sense of guilt in the back of his head that told him that what he was doing was wrong. That pretending to love the girl in a way that he could never do was wrong. But, what did it matter, really?

Spindle loved him, that much was obvious. She would do anything for him as she illustrated by attacking Aisling to earn his continued favor. And she had a hold in Queens where he could go and escape his own demons.

It really did not matter much at all.

He cleared his throat and, with a gentle push, stepped away from Spindle. It was still early and, before he lost his nerve, he wanted to retrieve his meager belongings from the Harlem House and start the journey to Queens. "Spindle. Does your invitation to accompany you to Queens still stand?" he asked in a voice akin to faux politeness. He did not, however, wait for her answer, preferring to continue in his statement. "Because I'd like to go with you."

"Of course. When do you want to go?" she asked, excitedly. Her face had lit up and, in that instant, her eyes lost that worn look. In that instant, her glassy green eyes did not remind him of loneliness or death; they shined with… Hope? Adoration?

"Now. I just have to get my bag from the House." He jerked his hand over his shoulder in the direction of the Harlem Lodging House. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

--

When he returned, a cloth bag – belonging to Trace who, as Rip reasoned, did not need it nor could sell it for much – slung over his shoulder containing all of his belongings, he found it amusing to see that Spindle had not moved from the exact spot he had left her.

She was idly twirling a thick strand of red hair around one of her dirty fingers, her heeled shoes planted firmly against the dirt ground. When she saw that Rip had returned she smiled coyly and raised her hand in greeting.

Rip, eager to begin the journey, forewent any of the niceties. Instead, he grabbed her hand. "Which way do we go?"

Spindle took the hint and began to walk. She did not let go of his hand. They just walked in a heavy silence, many thoughts running through both of their minds at this new development in their relationship. Neither could find the words to say just yet.

He did not ask her, right away, how far the distance was from where they started in Central Harlem, a few blocks from the Harlem House stood on 133rd street, to Far Rockaway, in Queens. Rip had never gone below Blayard Street, the southern boundary of Little Italy; after running from home after Daisy's death, he had only gone north. After walking, without incident, straight west through Manhattan and past Spanish Harlem, before being confronted in the Negro portion of East Harlem, Rip eventually made it – accompanying Mack and his boys – to Central Harlem. He had spent two years within a 20 block radius; he had no concept of how far away any other boroughs were from where he stood. He had no real concept of direction at all.

Somehow, though, Spindle knew what was on his mind. With her free hand, she squeezed his arm. "It's far, Rip. I ain't gonna lie to you. I figure, between here and Far Rockaway, it's a good twenty-five miles or so. The fastest I've ever made it is about nine hours." She let go of his arm and started to walk forward, a vigorous pep in her step as she went. "If we start now, and don't stop, we should make it before nightfall. I've had a bed reserved for you at the boys' house," she continued, ignoring the face Rip made – _not another boys' home_, "ever since you told me that you might move eastward. I'm sure the idiots will be good to you."

For a moment Rip seemed to hesitate. But, as his feet started to slow, his mind kicked in. _Don't forget what Maria told you. You must leave Harlem and you can not return to Little Italy. Wouldn't it be better to go to a place with someone you know rather than start over fresh and chance another Mack coming to you? Besides, Maria promised salvation. She promised she'd be there. _He nodded and began to walk a bit faster.

She laughed. "That a boy, Rip. Gotta go a bit faster. Everyone is waiting to meet you. I've told all my girls so much about you that they're all eager to finally see you."

_As am I_, he thought, his thin lips twisted in a cruel fashion. He would not let any of the boys there take advantage of him – none would ever use him like Mack had. He would just have to show them how far he would go to keep his privacy and pride in tact.

Which he did.

--

"Should we wake him?" It did not matter, Rip was already awake. But he pretended otherwise.

"I don't know. He bothers me. Coming up in here like he owns the place. I think—" came a second voice. He was cut off when the owner of the first voice spoke again, quieting him.

"Hush, Danger. Do you know who he's with? Spindle." Rip, his face pressed against his pillow, smirked. _I wonder just what kind of pull Caity has around this place. I thought that she was joking when she had it in her back pocket…_

"Who the hell is Spindle?"

"The better question is who the _fuck _is Spindle," laughed the boy with the first voice. Rip lost his smirk. _I should have known.  
_  
Though there were only two distinct voices that were having the hushed conversation beside the last bunk – Rip's new bunk, he heard as other boys joined in on the laughter. _How well do these boys know Spindle?_, he wondered, wiggling about in his new bunk now, giving the slight impression that he was waking. The laughter ceased almost at once.

The bunk had not been his when he arrived at the Rockaway Lodging House for Newsboys the night before but, after a quick show of rough masculinity – all it took was a threatening posture, a clear voice… and the maniacal waving of his blade (still slightly stained by Mack's blood) – the bunk became his.

It was no wonder the boys were pussyfooting around him. He was not asleep but he willed his lips to remain straight. He liked the power he had; at the Harlem House, he had not had any. _Maybe Queens will be good for me_.

"Well, I say that we leave him here," said the second voice, almost pouting.

Rip took that as his cue to open his icy blue eyes. He turned on his side and faced the two boys who were looking up at the upper bunk where Rip was lying. "Morning…Rocky? Danger?" he said, trying to remember if he had gotten the names right. There were not as many boys in the Rockaway Lodging House as in the Harlem House and, at any rate, Rip had always been good at names.

Both of them nodded sheepishly. The first boy, Rocky, squat with short dark hair and wide brown eyes, tried to manage a grin. "Time to sell the papes, buddy."

"Rip."

"Rip," repeated Rocky. He bowed his head and backed away from the bunk.

Rip turned to look at the second boy, the one who had seemed so tough when he thought that Rip was asleep. He was an oafish character with shaggy sandy colored hair and small dark and watery eyes. Those eyes, once they saw that Rip was almost glaring at him, were darting about nervously. "Morning Danger."

The boy stumbled, his false confidence fading. He seemed to be about Rip's age but, the Harlem boy could see, he had not been on the streets too long. He was soft. Rip smiled and Danger almost winced. "Morning Rip," he said quickly before retreating from the bunk.

None of the other boys in the bunkroom even looked up, all of them suddenly interested in the morning washing up process.

Rip laughed to himself as he climbed down the side ladder of the bunk. _I think I'm going to like it here._

--

After Spindle had shown him the way to the Rockaway Lodging House the night before, shortly before the curfew at ten o'clock, she had made him promise to meet her at the corner building so that they could sell together their first day. He agreed to meet her but refused to agree to sell with her. He wanted to explore the new land, he told her, and she reluctantly nodded. He did, however, agree to accompany her to the Distribution Center.

When he left the Lodging House, not much longer after he had woken up, he was not surprised to see that she was already waiting for him. Before they had arrived at the House, she had convinced him to take a quick detour to an abandoned lot where she slated her own lust. He readily gave in to her advances; it had been ages since he felt a woman's touch. It may not have been the virgin's touch that he continued to desire, but he needed it all the same. It was during her climax that Spindle, once again, asserted that he belonged to her before quickly, while whimpering, changing her words that she, equally, belonged to him. He knew, then, that he was to be stuck with her in the new territory. The sight of her, already waiting at the corner, affirmed his assumptions.

They did not say a word to each other as they walked but it was not an awkward silence – it was companionable and friendly. With every passing moment that he had spent with Spindle, he was further succumbing to the idea that they were meant to be. They needed each other in their own dysfunctional ways.

The walk from the Lodging House to the Distribution Center did not take long. It was a bigger building than the one Rip was used to, complete with an iron gate that was open. There were plenty of boys milling about, many that he did not recognize from the Lodging House though it had been the same in Harlem, but there were also equally as many girls. There were hardly any girls that were willing to sell newspapers in Harlem and the sight intrigued him.

He turned his head to make such a comment when he saw her. She was standing amidst a group of three girls but his eyes found her; to Rip, she was standing apart. It was almost as if he saw the same glow about her that he had seen in his dream.

_Maria._

He blinked his eyes twice before letting them fall back on the girl that stood just outside the gate, a stack papers held daintily in her arms. Her light brown hair was a mess of curls, her feminine blouse and long flowing skirt fit her slim frame perfectly. Her nose was slightly upturned and, he could see, her eyes even crinkled at the ends as she laughed at something her companions were saying.

He could not remove his eyes from her just yet. Vaguely he heard Spindle announce that she would buy their papers at the window but he just waved her on. There was something beginning, deep within him. Rip could feel it growing and, if he had to put the sensation into words, he would have said that it felt as if his soul was on fire.

_I found her. I found Maria. She's here._

Some part of his consciousness told him that it was impossible, that the girl he saw from across the Square was not his dead sister. But it was much harder to comprehend the fact when he was confronted with a girl who so resembled her.

_My salvation… _Grazie Dio... Grazie Maria..., he thought, thanking both his sister and the Lord for sending this girl to him – it could only be the work of such beings to forgive his transgressions and bring his love back to him.

He did not speak to her just yet. He was only brought out of his reverie when he saw her leaving the area alongside a short blonde girl. He would have followed her but, at that moment, Spindle appeared at his side, offering him his newspapers. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me, Rip?"

He stared at the red-head for a moment, pushing the image of the girl out of his head. For now, he would spend his time with Spindle. It had just dawned on him what sort of danger the girl might be in if Spindle learned that she was, in his eyes, Maria reborn. She had always been so jealous of his dead sister and it was hard to forget what had happened to Aisling when showed attention to him. He would not lose this girl.

Even if it took every ounce of cunning and deceit he had. Besides, it was not like he was not destined to burn for all eternity anyway. He would just have to do with Heaven on Earth, instead.

"Come, Spindle. Let's go."

_Until tomorrow, my new Maria._

Fino al domani, il mio nuovo cuore.

--

Translations:  
_  
__Grazie Dio…_ - Thank you, God…  
_Grazie Maria… _- Thank you, Maria  
_Fino_ _al domani, il mio nuovo cuore_ – Until tomorrow, my new heart

--

Okay... Now go read Obsession: Cuts like a Knife. It picks up right here and starts with the girl's point of view. Poor kid, she has no idea what she's in for... :)


End file.
